


Claws and Cannolis

by Kryptaria, rayvanfox



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Fluff, Kittens, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Punk Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3626802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cats. Can't live with them, can't let them live without you. Is it possible to be an unwitting partner in a cat timeshare? Not without meeting the other person who has stolen her heart...</p><p>Or, the fic whose working title was Catbutt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because we all need fluff and kittens in our lives, right?
> 
> Extra-special fluff and kittens to our betas and cheerleaders: ahappilee, neverwhere, pangallimaufry, scriptrixlatinae, and zephyrfox!

Most of the time, after collapsing into bed well past two a.m., Bucky slept like the dead until the middle of the morning. Having three younger sisters taught him to ignore any noises short of an explosion, and the youngest sister — often the cause of the explosion, thanks to her science hobbies — had taught him to sleep through an enthusiastic ten-year-old bouncing on the bed, shouting his name, then asking innocently, “Are you up yet?” as soon as he cracked open one eye.

So really, it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t wake up when _it_ happened at some point. Obviously he hadn’t woken up when it happened, but some time after, because...

Well, because when he opened his eyes, the evidence of it was curled up on top of his comforter, making little snoring, snorting noises. With every breath it took, fur the color of nighttime fog rippled. From just a few inches away, it was a little dizzying, in fact.

 _It_ , as it turned out, was a cat. More properly, a kitten, adorably bundled nose-to-tail on his chest, where it had apparently twisted in circles until, like any proper vortex, it had pulled up enough of the duvet to form a nest.

The only problem was, he didn’t actually _have_ a kitten.

He knew he should’ve gotten up out of bed, maybe searched for a kitten-wielding burglar on the theory that this was some sort of feline accomplice meant to distract him while someone stole his laptop, iPod, and the frying pans his mom had given him as an apartment-warming present, but... well, the kitten was adorable, with its tiny nose and huge tufty ears and a tail like one of those dusters that never actually cleaned ceiling fans even though they looked like they should work.

Besides, he was exhausted. He’d worked the dinner rush at his parents’ restaurant and stayed to give the kitchen its weekly deep scrubbing. And the kitten was a warm, cozy, purring weight on his chest. It was almost like having a significant other, only with less blanket stealing and random demands for him to psychically know what he’d done wrong this time.

So instead, he closed his eyes and let sleep drag him back down. And in the morning, when the kitten was gone, he wrote it off as a strange dream.

 

~~~

 

The second time it happened, a few days later, he woke up and _stayed_ awake long enough for his brain to reboot and come back online. The hallucinatory kitten stayed there, not a hallucination at all, but a stripey little fluffball of black and silver, sleeping in a ball on his chest, barely visible in the sliver of morning light that crept around his heavy blackout curtains.

He didn’t have a kitten. He was _positive_ he didn’t have a kitten. Having a kitten was practically like having a kid. It wasn’t something easily overlooked.

Carefully, he worked an arm out from under the blanket and gave the kitten a poke. It made a sound like an out-of-tune motor. It was softer than anything he’d ever felt.

The next poke was more like a gentle, one-fingered petting motion, just firm enough for him to feel the kitten’s rumbling, purring breath. And he stayed petting it until his wrist cramped from the awkward angle.

He should’ve gotten out of bed. He should’ve taken pictures, checked Craigslist or that missing pet finder website, maybe emailed Mom to see if she could make up “Found Kitten” flyers he could put up in the morning.

But the kitten was warm and comfortable, and _he_ was warm and comfortable, and he finally decided fuck it. He’d deal with the logistics tomorrow Or, well, later today, since the sun was already up.

 

~~~

 

But it seemed that his nocturnal-through-early-morning visitor, much like any self-respecting vampire, only came at night. Bucky spent — wasted? — his day off wandering the apartment complex, trying to keep an eye out for a stripey silver-and-black kitten, but the closest things he found were gray squirrels, and he was _positive_ he hadn’t had a squirrel in his bed.

The only thing he did accomplish was to figure out how the kitten was most likely sneaking in: through the half-sized window over the kitchen sink, which he kept open to dissipate the suspicious smell coming up from the drains or behind the fridge or wherever the previous tenant had been storing body parts. He’d wanted to get some heavy-duty cleaning spray, but his mom had thrown a fit, lecturing him on chemical exposure, as if he didn’t get enough of that working at the family restaurant. But the health department wouldn’t be coming to inspect Bucky’s apartment, so he’d finally surrendered to her eco-guilt trips, stocked up on baking soda, and kept the window open. After a childhood of sleeping in the blissful privacy of the converted attic, away from his sisters, he was practically immune to the cold anyway.

 

~~~

 

Three mornings later, Bucky was still awake at half past five, thanks to too many experimental espressos. The gleaming silver industrial espresso machine was a behemoth his mom had found at an online restaurant auction and bought cheap. “Practically for nothing!” she’d crowed.

“You don’t have a barista,” Bucky said, much as he hated to use logic to puncture his mother’s enthusiasm.

“You can figure it out, can’t you?” his dad had asked, knowing that only his eldest and youngest children had inherited his knack with machines, and it probably wasn’t ethical to ask a ten-year-old to be a barista, especially not for late night shifts.

And yes, Bucky _had_ eventually figured it out — the espresso part, at least — at the cost of his blood pressure and a tremor that hopefully would be offset with leftover lasagna. In his fuzzy-headed, wired state, he vaguely hoped that carbs would cancel out the caffeine. So he sat at the kitchen table, fork in one hand, the other hand resting on his laptop’s touchpad, though for the life of him he couldn’t remember what he was doing, other than blindly opening one clickbait “article” after another.

A soft _thud_ made him nearly jump out of his skin. His over-caffeinated heart lodged in his throat. He turned, chair scraping over cheap linoleum, holding the fork as if it were a weapon, which it would have been if his hand hadn’t been shaking so damned much.

But the only intruder was the kitten, with its too-big eyes and ears and tiny pink nose and an absolutely _immense_ tail made of pure fluff. It made a sound sort of like a _mew_ and sort of like a growl, then leaped from the edge of the sink to the kitchen table, landing in a cloud of fur that went everywhere, including the lasagna.

“Uh,” Bucky said intelligently as he put the fork down.

The kitten ignored him, stuck its nose into the lasagna, then started licking the sauce.

After staring for a good ten seconds, Bucky turned back to the laptop and opened Google.

 _Can cats eat lasagna?_ he typed, then pressed enter, only to be inundated by Garfield comics. He actually clicked through to the first half dozen before deciding that the kitten — who had discovered the parmesan-reggiano-mozzarella blend on top of the lasagna and was gnawing determinedly through it — had made its preference clear.

Obviously, the answer was yes. Random late-night kittens were more than happy to eat lasagna.

Bucky surrendered the kitchen table to his unnamed, unknown roommate and went to find a bowl. He filled it with water, set it on the kitchen table, then went to take a hot bath. Maybe that would help him sleep.

 

~~~

 

The best thing about coming home from a long day at work, Steve decided, was the fact that Sid Vicious would curl up on him when he collapsed on his bed, and her heavy, warm weight and deep, rumbling purr would calm his nerves and let him sleep. The worst part was when he’d ended up having to work a double, and Sid would be pissed off at him for being away too long and would ignore him until he offered treats. Not that he had money laying around for cat treats, but sometimes the guys that ran the seafood stand at the market would give him leftover lobster carcasses, which seemed to go over well. Granted, the worst sensation in the world was stepping on a picked-clean crustacean shell on the way to the bathroom at five a.m.

No, that was the second-worst sensation. The first worst was coming home to find bloody pawprints on the floor and kitchen counter and almost having a damned heart attack, worrying that Sid had been attacked or killed or was curled up somewhere impossible to find and _dying._ He called loudly for Sid and searched the whole apartment in a panic, only to find her sitting on the foot of his bed, whole and healthy and innocent as hell, having made a mess of the sheets. For a second Steve thought she had disemboweled a mouse on his bed, but when he got close, he noticed the tomatoey shade of red and a suspiciously familiar scent of garlic and oregano. The sauce actually smelled delicious, and it made Steve’s stomach growl, even though it was still doing flips after the scare.

“Sid, you little shit. You scared the fuck out of me. Where the hell did you find tomato sauce?” Steve asked, petting her head and back until she tipped over and showed him her belly, purring like mad the whole time. He knelt down and rested his elbows on the mattress, still petting her and talking quietly to her to calm himself down. “We’ll have to clean you up. And I’ll have to do laundry a week early. Which sucks, by the way, so thanks a lot.”

Sid just purred even more loudly and trapped his hand between her dirty paws so she could lick his fingers. He sighed at the show of affection, but then quickly pulled his hand away, knowing that the next moment her back claws would start shredding his forearm. The first time that had happened, he’d felt betrayed, but now... well, she was a cat. A well-named cat, at that.

He nudged her off the bed, then stripped off the sheet that looked like a crime scene, bundled it up into a ball and tossed it into his closet. Then he crawled onto the mattress, pulled the thankfully mostly clean comforter over his head, and lay down flat on his stomach to take a nap before thinking about food.

He woke up with Sid’s weight on the small of his back, craving pizza that he couldn’t afford. He ended up putting ketchup on his mac and cheese in consolation. It was a shitty substitute, and he told Sid so. She paused in licking her paws to stare at him with an “I don’t give a fuck” expression, and he snorted, amused, then finished off his meal.

 

~~~

 

Sunday nights, the restaurant ran a special on meatballs. Lots of meatballs. More meatballs than any one restaurant ever needed. It used to be that Nana, Bucky’s paternal grandmother, would come down and make the meatballs, starting on Thursday. Now, she just supervised on Friday and Saturday, then ate on Sunday, presiding over the family table in the back corner, by the kitchen door, where her sharp nose could catch any off-scents before servers could bring premature plates to waiting diners.

At the height of the Atkins-South Beach craze, meatballs had been ridiculously popular. Now they were still loved, but if one more person asked for gluten-free meatballs, Bucky was going to start stabbing people with a barbecue fork.

He wasn’t even going to start with the table that asked for soy-vegan-tofu meatballs. As soon as _that_ had happened, he’d hustled them out and pointed them in the direction of the new place down the road. It always smelled a little odd outside the doors — kind of like his kitchen, actually — but they were organic, free-range, vegan, something-or-other.

Besides, the fewer meatballs the restaurant sold, the more he could take home. That was how he did his grocery shopping, after all.

Late Sunday night — or, well, early Monday morning — Bucky was eating a meatball sub while reading an article on biological circadian rhythms. Turned out that every organ in the human body had its own rhythm, and eating right before bed was almost as bad as being on a nocturnal schedule.

Nana’s meatballs were apparently killing him.

Not that he was going to give up, though someone else had other ideas. He’d just picked up the second half of the sub when the soft sound of fuzzy kitten-feet warned him he had a guest. “Hey, you,” he greeted what was apparently his kitten, or at least the timeshare version of one.

Purring like a lawnmower, the kitten made the leap from the sink to the kitchen table and swiped needle-sharp claws at the sub. Bucky jerked back instinctively, only to get swiped at again.

“Okay, okay!” he said, because sometimes a person had to surrender without more than a token protest, at least when kitten claws were involved. He tilted the sub and pushed out one of the meatballs. It was the size of the kitten’s face, but that didn’t stop the kitten from chomping into it, purring with every exhale.

Weird, but who was he to judge? He shrugged and closed the “You’re going to die horribly” article so he could catch up on webcomics instead. It was nice to have company for dinner, and he was yawning by the time he finished all but the last couple of meatball-free bites of his sub.

He dropped the end of the crusty bread onto the plate, thinking the kitten might want some, but that got him a startled hiss. Then deadly fangs sank into the half-eaten meatball, and the kitten bolted for freedom, flying across to the sink and barely touching down before disappearing out the window.

Bucky stared at the empty, kitten-shaped hole in his kitchen. Then he shouted, “You’re welcome!” Unaccountably lonely, he went to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve woke before his alarm. That never happened, mostly because his alarm was set for 4:45 in the fucking morning. But _this_ morning, Sid had decided to practically sit on his face and make the whole pillow vibrate with her... who knew what. Grooming? Eating? God, he hoped it wasn’t actually a mouse this time. He’d just washed his sheets from the first mess.

“Sid, you fucking bastard. Get off,” Steve grumbled, shoving at the long fur pressed to his face, trying to find space to breathe in the cloud of softness. Sid stopped purring but didn’t move away. She just huffed and went back to whatever she was doing. Curious, Steve turned on the lamp next to his bed and saw a gory mess all over his pillow and what looked like flesh... no. Meat. Cooked meat.

“How the fuck did you find a meatball, you creep?”

Resolving to fix the shredded screen in the back window, Steve crawled out of bed and pulled on pants. If his bed was going to constantly smell like Italian food, he was going to have to find a deal on jarred pasta sauce or he’d go crazy.

Since he had an extra twenty minutes before he had to head to work, he decided to search the building, just in case he could find whoever Sid was stealing from. He walked the full length of the hallway on his floor, sniffing for a familiar scent, then headed down to the first floor and did the same. Nothing conclusive. Then again, it wasn’t the time of day anyone was cooking shit like meatballs. Steve’s stomach growled just thinking about it, though, which meant his morning at the coffee cart was going to be a hard one unless he could trade with one of the other stands for some food. The donut girl seemed to feel sorry for his skinny ass. Maybe she wanted coffee this morning.

Then he’d grab a piece of cardboard when he left work to cover the damned window so Sid would stop with the tomato sauce massacres in his bed.

 

~~~

 

_Are meatballs bad for cats?_

_Cat food_

_Cat dietary requirements_

Six days after the meatball theft, and the kitten had yet to return, leaving Bucky in a guilt-ridden panic. To make matters worse, every crazy on the internet seemed to have their own ideas of what was and wasn’t healthy for cats. The situation was even more muddled by big-name cat food companies with their “scientifically proven formulas” and dietary scaremongering if cats didn’t get 0.001 micrograms of this or that, as if cats hadn’t been surviving in the wild for longer than humans.

But finally, Bucky put together a list of generally accepted bad things, and then he made a rather scary phone call.

“Nana? Nana, it’s James,” he shouted. She’d been losing her hearing for years now, but she refused to acknowledge it. She didn’t even have her phone’s volume turned up all the way.

“James?”

“Yeah, Nana. I need to know your meatball recipe.”

Voice practically crackling with suspicion, she asked, “Why?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Nana, please —”

“You’re not making meatballs on your own, are you?” she demanded. “Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

“Nana, I was _ten_ —”

“Ruined the meat grinder, you did. And burnt the onions.”

Bucky groaned. “Okay, but there are onions in it, right?”

“Just a little.” Now she sounded offended. “What do you think this is, that McDonald’s trash with its fake grated plastic onions?”

 _McDonald’s doesn’t serve meatballs,_ he thought, though he was too smart to actually say it outright. Instead, he said, “There’s garlic in them, too —”

“Of course, there’s garlic!”

Bucky groaned.

“What? Speak up, boy!”

“Nothing. Thanks, Nana. Love you.”

“That’s it? That’s what you called for?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re not going to try cooking unsupervised, are you?” she asked worriedly.

Bucky smiled weakly. “Nope. I promise.”

“Well, all right. But if you do, don’t walk away from the stove. You’re in an apartment. If you set it on fire...”

“I won’t. I promise,” he said, hanging up just as soon as he could.

Then, with another groan, he let his head fall onto the kitchen table. God, he hoped he hadn’t hurt that sweet little kitten.

 

~~~

 

It was four in the god damned morning, a fact which Steve had already yelled into the dark apartment at his bastard cat. She didn’t seem to care, however, and kept on mewing like a skipping record, over and over while he tried to sleep.

_Mew, mew, mew, mew, mew..._

Steve was going to go crazy. And then be a wreck at work all day. And because his luck was shitty, his boss would end up calling in, and he’d have to work the whole day instead of getting off after a normal eight hours. He’d be dead on his feet come five p.m.

“Shut _up,_ Sid!” Steve pulled the pillow off his head and climbed out of bed in a cold fury. “I swear to fucking God, I don’t care how cute and fluffy and warm and cuddly you are, you’re a fucking asshole. What _is_ it?”

Sid was sitting on the window sill next to the piece of cardboard Steve had used to cover the shredded part of the screen. She would stare at Steve and mew for a minute, then sniff at the edge of the cardboard and try to claw at it. One corner was bent and torn but Steve had wedged it in tight, which he felt a vicious pride about at the moment. More meowing, this time louder and more insistent, and a swipe or two of claws towards Steve’s bare stomach.

“Christ. What is wrong with you? Do you have a boyfriend out there, or something? Should I be jealous?”

He tried to pet her head, but she ducked and hissed. Steve had to admit, the past week with her had been more antagonistic than normal, and she’d gotten to the point where she wouldn’t curl up on him anymore, preferring the foot of the bed near that very first tomato sauce mess.

“All right. Fine. If I let you out, will you shut up so I can sleep?” Steve reached for the cardboard, and Sid swiped at him, but her paw landed on his forearm without claws, as if she wanted to help. “If you leave me for good, I’m gonna be so pissed.” he said, right before pulling the cardboard away and watching her streak out the opening.

He stood at the window looking out into the night for just a minute before turning to head back to bed. The thing that stopped him in his tracks was the faint scent of tomato sauce.

“God dammit.”

 

~~~

 

“Damned fucking cappuccinos,” Bucky muttered, leaning over the pot to take a sniff. The sauce was _almost_ perfect, but there was something not quite right. Had he overdone it when he’d roasted the tomatoes?

This was what he got for trying to cook at the twenty-hours-awake mark, after not just a half-dozen cappuccinos but ones that were laden with the most God-awful syrups. Rebecca and her ridiculous ideas... “Just like at Starbucks!” she’d said, as if that was some sort of virtue. And then she’d floated out to go flirt with customers and rake in the tips, leaving Bucky to try and turn corn syrup and chemicals into something that didn’t taste nasty. Practically flammable, like fucking gasoline.

Basil, he decided. One little bit of basil would do it. Just enough sweetness to counteract the bitter tinge. But should he mince it and sprinkle it into the sauce? Gently cook it in olive oil?

He had no instincts for this. Nana’s genes had skipped him and gone right to Kimberly and Viola, his two youngest sisters. Kimberly was a genius in the kitchen, and Viola... well, she was more a scientist than anything else. One day, she’d either be an expert chef or an expert explosives designer. Possibly both.

He’d just picked up the knife when a silver and black cloud came through his window, then let out a yowl of unhappiness when fluffy paws hit the pans stacked up in the sink instead of clearing the way right to the edge. Metal clattered, and the kitten yowled again, which was just enough warning for Bucky to drop the knife before the angry fluffball latched onto him, claws digging into his _Barnes Bistro_ polo shirt.

 _“Ow!”_ He didn’t know if he should pry the kitten off or not, so he ended up cradling the kitten’s back end, supporting what little weight there was.

A sharp knock on the door, and the kitten clawed its way up Bucky’s back to perch on his shoulder. A low, gruff voice startled both of them, demanding, “Hey! What’s going on in there?”

For one crazy, exhausted, caffeinated moment, Bucky wondered if there was an apartment complex rule about cooking at four in the morning. Then he wondered if his “visitor” was some sort of crazy person. Police were supposed to identify themselves, weren’t they?

Steadying the kitten with one hand, Bucky bent down to pick up the knife, just in case. Then he went to the door and peered out the peephole, but all he saw was the top of a head that appeared to be somewhere between dishwater blond and... turquoise? Did Bucky even _know_ anyone with turquoise hair? Well, outside of Viola’s disastrous attempt to be Cookie Monster one Halloween...

Baffled, Bucky undid the deadbolt, though he left the chain in place. He opened the door three inches and looked out. Turquoise-and-blond was a good six inches shorter than Bucky and half his weight, with a scowl like thunder and a shirt to match. It was dark grey and long-sleeved with a black and white design that looked like smoke or clouds. When he looked at Bucky, his eyebrows lifted to his hairline, and his eyes widened as if in shock.

“Sid, what the fuck?” The guy’s focus shifted from the kitten to Bucky’s face and he growled, “That’s my cat.”

Bucky felt his face go hot. He wasn’t a... a _cat-napper_ , but the evidence looked that way. “Oh. Uh,” he said, lifting his hands to pull the kitten off his shoulder, only to realize he was still holding a knife. And his foyer was too tiny for any sort of table where he could put it down. “Sorry. Sid? He comes in through my kitchen window. Kind of a lot.”

“ _She_ lives with me upstairs. And she’s a fucking mess when she comes home. Who feeds a cat Italian food?” The scowl was back, but it seemed directed at the kitten and Bucky in equal measure.

Who named a female cat _Sid_? Maybe it was short for Sidney? With a mental shrug, Bucky said, “ _She_ feeds herself. She’s stolen my dinner... I dunno, a half-dozen times?

The scowl disappeared and was replaced with worry. “Shit. I’m sorry, man. It was happening while I was at work, and I tried to stop her for a bit, but she wouldn’t shut up tonight, and... I guess she likes your cooking.” The guy ended up with a sheepish smile that was actually kind of endearing. Sort of like a cuddly shark. Or maybe a hedgehog. The guy was too small to be a shark. But he didn’t feel dangerous or threatening, so...

“Hang on.” Bucky closed the door almost all the way so he could unlatch the door chain. Then he let the door swing open and said, “Her claws are kind of dug — _Shit!_ The sauce,” he said, pointing back — with the knife — when he caught a scorching smell. He didn’t think; he stabilized Sid the kitten with his free hand and dashed into the kitchen to give the pot a stir, leaving his door wide open at four o’clock in the morning, with a fierce little stranger on his doorstep.

Bucky could hear the cat owner shut the door behind him as he said, “Hey. Sid, you’re not helping.” Then he came up to Bucky and reached out. “Lemme get her off you...”

“Yeah. Sorry,” Bucky said, ducking his shoulder just a little as he put down the knife and picked up the spoon. He gave the deep, bubbling pot a quick stir, scraping at the bottom to try and get the sauce moving around. Hopefully the smell came from splatters and not the bottom of the pot. Nothing was worse than scorched sauce at the bottom, especially after it was scraped up and mixed in with the rest. Shit. Maybe he should’ve left it?

He took out the spoon and gave it a critical look, trying to see if there were any brown spots mixed in with the rich red. A startled _“Shit!”_ was his only warning as Sid reached out, hooked his arm with a claw right into his skin, and leaned over to start licking the spoon.

“Jesus Christ, what do you put in that stuff, catnip?” The guy’s voice sounded amused, which gave it a much richer, warmer tone. “Sid, you idiot, come here.” The kitten’s weight was lifted off Bucky’s shoulders, though her back claws were still trying to hold on. And she was _still_ licking the spoon.

“It’s fine. There’s nothing in it that’ll hurt her,” Bucky said, giving in. He held up the spoon so the kitten, which had turned into the hook-filled side of velcro, could lick at the sauce. “You know how hard it is to make red sauce with no garlic or onions?”

“Aren’t those two of the main flavors?” The guy was, as far as Bucky could tell over his shoulder, holding the kitten with one hand and trying to dislodge her grip with the other. Some of the claws were in Bucky’s skin, and some in his polo shirt, so it wasn’t an easy job. “Why would you do that?”

“They’re poisonous for cats. I was thinking of using fresh basil, but I’ve only got dried oregano, so I’m not sure it’s as good as it could be.” Bucky’s answer came out automatically, before he realized just how ridiculous it felt to be cooking for a cat that wasn’t even his.

“You...” The guy paused in pulling a paw away, only to have it land back on Bucky’s shoulder again. “You _like_ her? I thought she stole from you.”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky muttered, even more embarrassed now. “I guess I should’ve shut the window, but it smells fucking awful in here, like there’s a body buried under the floor or something.”

“Whoa, seriously? You’re not an ax murderer, are you?” The guy sounded more intrigued than freaked out, which was probably something to be worried about. “Because that’s some _Tell-tale Heart_ shit right there.”

“You read?” Bucky blurted out like an idiot. “Poe, I mean?”

“Hell, yeah. He was my favorite author in high school. Him and Joseph Conrad. And then Neil Gaiman.”

“I couldn’t get into Conrad,” Bucky admitted, turning the spoon to the other side so he could taste. The sauce was still missing something, so he tossed the spoon into the sink and went for the fridge, only to realize he was still attached to the other guy via Sid. “Uh. I need to get out the sausage.”

“Okay, shit. I’m sorry. One sec. This is worse than ripping off a band-aid. I’ve been meaning to cut her claws, but she’s been angry with me this week... Keeping her from you, I guess.” The guy tried a new approach, which seemed to consist of petting Sid until she started to purr and relaxed her claws so Bucky could get out from under them.

“I can give you some sauce to take with you,” Bucky offered impulsively, glancing back over his stinging shoulder. Now that the scowl was gone, the guy was cute. Almost as cute as Sid the kitten. Bucky quickly turned to hide his face in the fridge while he searched for the sausage. It was in a foil take-out container, but so was damn near everything else in his fridge, since he generally lived off leftovers.

“Really? I mean, it’s okay. I’m sure she’ll still come back to me without it...” The guy sounded a little too eager for his protest to be believable.

“All of this” — laughing, Bucky gestured at the takeaway tins — “is pasta, meatballs, lasagna, appetizers, desserts... I have more than enough, believe me.” He ducked back down and tried to decipher Rebecca’s handwriting on the cardboard lids. He tipped one towards the light, then took it out to offer it to his guest-kitten’s pet human. “You like cannoli?”

“Um, I think so? Those are the little tube cookies with icing inside?” The guy’s eyes were glued to the tin as he let Sid jump down to the floor. He reached out for it and looked up at Bucky as if asking permission.

“Yeah. They’re not as crispy anymore, but they’re my dad’s recipe, so they’re still good, even though he’s an architect first and a chef second.” Bucky shoved the tin into the guy’s hands, then went back to looking for the sausage. It had been made fresh yesterday, after the last of the meatballs had been shaped and fridged.

“Oh man, they look awesome. Your dad made these?” The guy’s voice went sharp as he said, “Sid, for Christ’s sake. Get out of the sink.”

Bucky looked over to see the kitten’s butt high up in the air. The rest of her was in the sink. Judging by the faint rattling sound, she was probably licking the wooden spoon. “She’s okay. There’s nothing sharp in there to hurt — Aha.” He pulled out the foil container with the sausage and set it on the counter. “Let me just brown this real quick. I should’ve done this first, but I wasn’t thinking.”

The guy had a cannoli sticking out of his mouth as he pulled Sid out of the sink and backed out of the tiny kitchen area. He tucked her in the crook of his arm and took the rest of the dessert out of his half-full mouth to say, “I’ll let you get to that. Sorry about Sid.”

“No. Hey, it’s not —” Bucky cut off, realizing that four a.m. was probably a lousy time to invite a complete stranger and his Italian-food-loving kitten to stay for a late dinner. Or breakfast. “No problem. If you ever want to, uh, share dinner with Sid and me, let me know. Or, I mean, I can shut the window or get a screen or something. I’m not trying to subvert your cat.”

“No, it’s okay. She’ll just meow at you to let her in, and it’s not like I don’t feed her, no matter how she acts, so... I guess if you don’t mind her visiting, I don’t.” The guy looked down at Sid’s tomato-covered face and shrugged. “I end up working long hours, so at least she gets company this way.”

“You work nights, too?” Bucky asked as he finally got the lid off the sausage. He used a pinky to open the cabinet under the sink, then tossed the lid in the trash.

“Nope. Mornings. I should be getting up for work in about half an hour.” The guy scowled at Sid and then gave Bucky a long-suffering look. He pointed to his shirt, which was half obscured by cat fur, but that Bucky could now see was the leaf design fancy baristas made in the foam of a latte. “Coffee cart.”

“Oh. Shit,” Bucky said, looking to the digital clock next to the stove. “I just got _off_ work. You, uh, want breakfast?”

“You don’t have to,” the guy said, just as his stomach growled loudly enough for Sid to startle and claw her way up to his shoulder. He winced at Bucky, his neck going pink, and held up the half of a cannoli in his hand. “This was really good. I bet they’re awesome with coffee, if you want some.”

Bucky laughed regretfully. “I couldn’t. One more cup of coffee, and I’ll explode.” He picked up the knife and speared one of the sausages so he could move it to the cutting board. Then, remembering he’d been petting Sid, he put the knife back down and went to wash his hands. “We got some giant espresso machine at work, and they decided I’d become the expert. I have to keep sampling my own work.”

“Oh. Yeah. Um...” The guy stepped forward, looking hopeful. “If you want, I could walk you through it? I mean, you probably figured out most of it, but the timing is kinda important. So is the grind. And the pressure. And... yeah.” He brushed his fading turquoise hair out of his eyes, and Bucky noticed his ears were pink.

Bucky tried to picture this slouchy, skinny punk in the kitchen at Barnes Bistro, and he completely failed. Not that anyone would judge him for being a sort of punk. The bistro was just very... quaint and old fashioned. Mom kept trying to put her own spin on it, but it was still very red-and-white checkered, with those fake candle flame bulbs in the lamps. Viola had finally gotten Nana to throw out the raffia-wrapped wine bottles.

But maybe this cat-person was exactly what they needed. In fact, the more Bucky sliced the sausage — portioning it for two-and-a-half, not just one — the more he thought it was a brilliant idea.

“Wait, what are you then?” he asked as his brain hit a strange road bump. “I mean, Italian’s a gendered language. Barista. So, what is it? Baristo? That sounds weird.”

“In English, you’re a barista no matter what your gender. Or, I am. I dunno what you are. A waiter? A cook?” The coffee guy took another step forward and tried to look around Bucky. “What’s the sausage for?”

“Flavor and body. No onions and garlic in the sauce. The sausage has fennel, red pepper, three kinds of meat, and the souls of people who pissed off my grandmother, I think.” Bucky laughed and went to wash his hands again. He’d been a little obsessive about hand-washing ever since he gave himself food poisoning when he was fifteen. “And I’m whatever they need me to be. It’s the family restaurant.”

“Right. Dad makes the cannolis, grandma makes the sausage, and you figure out the espresso. Who washes the dishes?” The guy sounded amused, but not in a mean way — he wasn’t making fun.

Bucky grinned and got one of the heavy frying pans out of the cupboard under the counter. “Whoever doesn’t run fast enough. I mean, we have employees, but we all help out. The whole family. Well, except for Viola. Nobody lets her near the stove, unless it’s for chemistry class. She’s a little too good with combustible reactions, and there are some foods that aren’t supposed to be flambeed.” Once he had oil heating up in the pan, he looked back, put out his hand, and said, “Shit. I’m an asshole. I’m Bucky. I swear, I don’t kidnap cats.”

The guy grinned wide and shook Bucky’s hand firmly. “I’m Steve. And I don’t starve cats, even if Sid likes your food better.”

Bucky grinned and picked up the cutting board so he could slide the sausage into the pan. “I’m a trained professional. _Everyone_ likes my food better, because of Nana’s recipes,” he said, glad they’d gone from cat-napper and cat-human to friends.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve was never this lucky. Sid’s boyfriend was absolutely beautiful and could cook like an angel, if the smell in the house was anything to go on. Clearly his whole family knew what they were doing in the kitchen, whereas Steve was doing well if he didn’t burn his grilled cheese and undercook his ramen. But Bucky had made spaghetti sauce from scratch and was willing to put up with Steve — and Sid — long enough to feed them. If Steve wasn’t going to get any sleep before work, at least he wouldn’t go in on an empty stomach.

He tried not to stare as he watched Bucky cook — not at the food, but at Bucky’s body. His hands and arms and back, his ass when he bent to look in the fridge — all of them were shapely and strong and made him look so very _capable._ He could probably pick Steve up and throw him across the apartment without trouble. The guy knew how to use a knife, too. Steve might have gotten hungrier the longer he watched Bucky cook, but it was damn certain he was getting _thirsty._ It had been too long since Steve had been with anyone, and though he knew this cat timeshare wouldn’t go anywhere, and that he should be grateful Bucky hadn’t kicked him out — or kicked his ass — he couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to touch, taste, feel...

“Ow! Sid! Why do you have to live up to your god damned name so completely?” Steve dropped Sid onto the floor and shook the hand that she’d scratched as if he could dislodge the pain. He knew better than to lose focus when he was petting his little diva of a kitten who wanted all the attention for herself, but with Bucky in the room, it was a struggle.

“What name? I mean, who’s she named for? Sidney something?” Bucky asked over the sizzle of sausage in the frying pan.

“Sid Vicious. I named her before I took her to the vet and learned she was female. The name fit even more back when she was a tiny, spiky little ball of fluff.” Steve took his phone out of his pocket and pulled up a picture. It was of Sid staring at the camera like she wanted to tear it to shreds. “This is what she looked like a couple months ago, when my aunt gave her to me. Tiny and furious.”

Bucky gave the sausage one last stir, then turned and leaned over to look at the phone. “Oh, my god. She’s kind of terrifying, for someone so adorable. Does she live on the blood of her enemies?”

“No, apparently, she massacres meatballs on my pillow. It just _looks_ like the blood of her enemies.” Steve smiled snarkily, one eyebrow up.

“Oh, shit. The meatball she stole...” Bucky turned quickly away as if hiding a blush. “I’m sorry. She ate half of it, then ran out with the rest. I guess... she wanted to share?”

What a sweet idea. Steve didn’t believe it for a heartbeat. “Or taunt me. My bed smelled really good, but it looked like a crime scene.”

“I _really_ didn’t think she’d just run off with it,” Bucky said apologetically. He fiddled with the burner’s heat, then gave the sausage another stir. “She’s been coming here for... I dunno, a couple weeks now? Speaking of, if you’re upstairs, how does she get down here? I hope you’re not letting her wander the whole building.”

“She’s a cat. There’s no _letting_ her do anything. She does what she wants, and we humans deal with it.” Steve smiled proudly at his little monster, then looked back at Bucky. “But no, it’s cool. I live right above you. I guess she uses the fire escape.”

“Sneaky. But yeah, probably not unexpected.” Bucky picked up the frying pan and started flicking the sausage pieces into the pot of sauce. Only after the first few were in did he freeze and look back, a little wide-eyed. “Uh. Any dietary restrictions? It’s got pork, beef, and probably some sort of game. Rabbit or venison.”

 _Whoa._ This family didn’t fuck around. “Nope. I’ll eat pretty much everything. Especially if it’s free. Besides,” Steve moved just slightly closer to look into the pot of sauce, “if you made it good enough for my cat...”

Grinning, Bucky turned and looked Steve up and down, then laughed when he spotted the cat trying to climb Steve’s leg. “Yeah, only one of us in this kitchen is terrifying, and it’s not you or me.”

Steve laughed. “Why do you think I keep her around?” He bent down to pick her up. “No one takes me seriously, but this one? She doesn’t fuck around. And soon she’ll be huge, so people will think twice about fucking with her.”

“What is she, half-lion? Or Siberian tiger? She’s gorgeous,” Bucky said, risking life and limb — or at least finger — to boop her on the nose. Instead of taking the offending finger off at the first knuckle, she rumbled and slitted her eyes.

Well, wasn’t _that_ fascinating? Like human, like cat, it seemed. Or vice versa. “Someone loves you. Must be the smell of rabbit in the air.” Steve grinned slyly at Bucky and said, “She’s a Maine Coon. They get _big._ ”

“Oh, damn. You won’t need a watch-dog with her around.” Bucky grinned and gave the pot another stir, then leaned over to sniff. “That drawer. Grab a spoon,” he said, pointing to the side.

Steve did as he was told, even though Sid yowled, being moved further away from the pot. He held a spoon out to Bucky as he said, “That’s the point.”

Bucky took the spoon, fingers brushing over Steve’s skin, and scooped out a bit of sauce. “Here, both of you try this,” he said, turning the spoon to offer it to Steve, though a yowling Sid tried to shove her head in the way.

“After you, princess,” Steve snarked, as Sid sniffed the spoon then started to lick it. Cockblocked by his own cat. _Wonderful._ “I’ve never had spaghetti for breakfast, but I’d eat anything that smells this good.”

“Spaghetti.” Bucky blinked those pretty blue eyes a couple of times, then twitched the spoon at Steve and said, “ _Shit_. Here. Spaghetti. Unless you want it on toast or something.”

Steve had to shift Sid’s weight in his arms to grab the spoon. “Toast? Is that the breakfast version?” He’d never heard of that before, but when in Rome...

“Heh. That’s the ‘I forgot about the pasta’ version, but it’s no problem.” Bucky was already leaning down to get another pot from a low cupboard. “I need actual food to counter the caffeine, anyway. My sister — the oldest one — got all these shit syrups and expected me to make espresso drinks that taste good.”

“Oh, God,” Steve couldn’t help but move close to the sink and watch Bucky’s face. “That’s not how to make espresso taste good. That’s how to make it taste like a milkshake. A shitty milkshake.”

“See, that’s what I said, only Rebecca thinks real coffee only comes from Starbucks.” Bucky rolled his eyes and shoved the pot under the faucet at an angle so he could start filling it with water. “Now _somebody’s_ got to become an expert with the thing, and that’s me or Viola, and V’s not old enough. She’s the youngest sister. And god help us all if Dad decides _he_ wants to help, because the whole machine would end up in pieces with him trying to engineer in improvements.” He clanged the pot, half-full, onto a free burner with a shudder.

“Bucky, Starbucks is shit. And it’s the farthest thing from Italian coffee that exists. You don’t want that shit in your restaurant.” Steve leaned forward and lowered his voice slightly. “I can help you make coffee taste good, _all by itself_.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Steve, then at Sid, then back at Steve. “Can you come by one evening, after the dinner rush? Like, around nine? _Without_ your bodyguard?”

Steve felt his eyes go way too wide. Bucky had just asked him to hang out. Granted, it was at Bucky’s job, and it was doing a training on a machine he’d never laid eyes on, but it was still hanging out. And with the most beautiful boy that had ever said more to Steve than his coffee order. “Sure. Um. Maybe on Wednesday? Thursday’s my only morning off this week.”

“Yeah.” Bucky gave a negligent shake of salt into the pot, then grinned at Steve. “In fact, if you come a little early, you can have dinner, on the house. You like lasagna?”

“Is it possible to _not_ like lasagna?” Steve asked without thinking. He felt his neck heat up and realized he shouldn’t take the offer. The guy was feeding him already; how much more of a mooch could he be? “But you don’t have to. I don’t want to make more work for you when the place is busy.”

“No, it’ll be good. Lasagna, fresh garlic bread — you’ll love it. We bake the bread fresh, and the garlic’s roasted separately, so it’s nice and mild. And the pasta’s homemade, too, at least for the lasagna. A hell of a lot better than this,” Bucky said, shaking the box of squiggly pasta he’d taken down from the cupboard.

“Look, when I eat noodles, it’s mac and cheese or ramen, so you won’t hear me complaining.” Steve smiled sheepishly and tried not to think about how he couldn’t afford to pay the kind of bill Bucky was talking about racking up at his restaurant. Maybe _once,_ if he was really frugal for the rest of the month, but usually places with the word _Bistro_ in the title had entrees way out of Steve’s price range. It felt like a huge favor to be a given a meal like that for free, and people didn’t do that unless they expected you to spend money at their place in the future. He opened his mouth to protest again, then worried Bucky would think he was insulting the food that his grandma or someone made. _Shit._ “Really, whatever’s fine.”

“Tell Nana you’re living off boxed mac and cheese or ramen, and she’ll adopt you,” Bucky warned, looking into the pot of sauce. “See, that’s better. You can already smell it. The sausage helped give it a kick. You want to get down a couple plates?” He pointed at the top cupboard to the right of the sink.

Steve wondered how much Bucky was like his grandma, and then considered just how pathetic he was willing to look if it meant being adopted by _him_. _In your dreams, Rogers._ He unhooked Sid from his shirt and let her jump out of his arms, then took a cue from Bucky and washed his hands before getting down the plates. He had to stretch onto his tiptoes to get them, but at least he could reach. “Thanks a lot for this, Bucky.”

“Anything to keep the cops off my back.” Bucky stuck out a hand, blocking Sid’s path towards the pot simmering on the stove. “Cat-napping carries a heavy prison term, I’ve heard.”

Utterly charmed, Steve just stared at Bucky for a moment with a goofy grin on his face. Then he rolled his eyes and said, “Only if you levy a ransom, which you seem to have gotten backwards here.” He gestured to the food cooking on the stove.

“Yeah, well — _God_ ,” Bucky said, blocking Sid’s attempt to evade him. “Get a little plate down so I can feed her a little, before she guts us both, will you?” As Steve opened the cupboard to find a saucer, Bucky continued, “Where do you work? And shit, when do you have to go? You want me to put this stuff in a to-go container for you? I’ve got some extras.”

Steve glanced at the clock, taking into account the fact that he was already up and dressed. And the fact that on a special occasion like this, he didn’t care if he opened the coffee cart a few minutes late. “I still have half an hour before I’ve gotta leave.” He nudged Sid off the counter with his elbow and added, “I’m at the coffee cart in the market near the harbor. Doesn’t take long this early in the morning.”

“Okay. Good.” Bucky grinned at Steve, then scooped some of the sauce — with chunks of sausage, Steve noticed — onto the little plate. He spread it around, then put the plate into the freezer. “Just for a minute or two, so it cools. Do you like it? Making coffee, I mean?”

Steve tried not to stare as Bucky bent over again so he could look through the fridge. With a shrug, Steve said, “It’s what I know. I’ve been doing it since I was in high school, so it’s sort of second nature at this point. Coffee’s a weird thing to know a shit-ton about, but it’s nice to be an expert on _something._ ”

“Kind of like cooking. Though how the hell it turned into _science_ with V, I have no idea. She’s got an instinct for chemistry, but not cooking.” Bucky turned back with a frown. “All I’ve got to drink is water. Is that okay?”

“Okay?” Steve smiled at the fact that Bucky clearly got the hosting instincts. “I barged into your house demanding my cat, and you offered to feed us both instead of kicking me out — or beating me up. I’m not gonna storm out because you don’t have anything but water to drink.”

“I wouldn’t —” Bucky looked back at Steve, then ducked his head with a shy smile that Steve only glimpsed. Then he took a filtered pitcher out of the fridge. “Grab a couple of glasses? Oh, and a bowl for Sid? She looks like the type to stick her paw into a glass and tip it over if she’s thirsty.”

“You have no idea,” Steve said as he started searching the cabinets for glassware. “I’ve started drinking out of a water bottle to foil her plans of spilling water all over my computer.” He set a low bowl on the counter and held two glasses out for Bucky to fill.

“She’s a sweetheart, though,” Bucky said, filling the glasses with one hand while he reached over them to scoop up Sid with the other. “Sneaky little sweetheart, that is. Aren’t you, baby?”

“I don’t know what cat you’re talking about but it’s not mine. She’s a terror,” Steve said, proudly. “But yes. Very sneaky. It took me a week to figure out she’d shredded a window screen and was sneaking out when I was gone.”

Bucky filled the bowl, then put down the pitcher so he could hold Sid with both hands. “He’s found us out, sweetheart. Our affair’s not a secret anymore.” Somehow, he got away with kissing the tip of Sid’s nose without losing any blood to her claws.

“You’ve owned cats before,” Steve said the moment he figured it out. “You’re like a cat whisperer or something, aren’t you? Either that or you put something in your food to make them fall in love with you.” He set down the glasses to free his hands, then realized what he really wanted was to pet Bucky, not Sid.

Bucky’s grin was framed perfectly by Sid’s tufted ears. “Three generations in the restaurant trade, Steve. I’m a pro.” He dared another kiss to Sid’s nose and sweetly asked, “Isn’t that right, baby?”

Steve had to bite his lip to keep from responding to Bucky’s question. _He_ wasn’t Bucky’s baby, but God, he wanted to be. And he was starting to be jealous of his god damned _cat._ “Well, I look forward to tasting your cooking, then.” He pressed his lips together right after letting that slip. It sounded way more suggestive than he’d meant it to.

Laughing, Bucky picked up Sid’s water bowl and put it on the table, rather than the floor. “On my day off, I’ll make you dinner _and_ dessert. Uh, should I put her up here or on the floor? I usually let her eat up here with me.”

Speechless at the thought of what exactly _dinner and dessert_ might entail, Steve shrugged. Then he cleared his throat to say, “Your house, your rules. Though I think cats are allergic to rules.”

“Which is why she sneaks in through the window instead of using the front door.” Bucky went to check the pasta water. “Though hell, you could probably fit through the window. You look like the breaking-and-entering type. Like cat, like human?”

Steve’s grin was sharp, but it was because he couldn’t tell if that comment was a compliment or an insult. Coming from someone who grew up in a family with a successful business, it felt a bit more like a jab than he wanted it to. He decided to play nice, though. For once. “Only when I lose my keys. Luckily Sid hasn’t figured out how to lock me out. Not yet, at least.”

“See, that’s when you train her to steal keys. Sneak in the window, steal the keys, bring them to you,” Bucky said, his smile turning impish. “Of course, the best defense against Sid here would be to leave a lasagna out on the counter. Screw stealing keys when there’s lasagna available.”

“Well, lucky you, you’ll never have your keys stolen with all that food in your fridge.” Steve leaned against the table and crossed his arms. “I guess that means you’ll never find the both of us hanging out in your apartment when you get home.”

Bucky shook the box of pasta into the water, stopping when it was about half-empty. “Yeah, well, once you set foot in the restaurant, if Nana sees you, she’ll keep you until you’re properly fed.” He glanced back with a lopsided smile. “Promise you won’t take offense. She’s old, and she thinks anyone who’s not... you know” — he held out his hands at waist-height, inches from his body — “has to be starving.”

Steve wasn’t _starving,_ but there were weeks he had to choose between bus fare and fresh vegetables. Much of the winter, the choice was clear, and almost everything he ate was a form of carbohydrate or fat. “I don’t have a nana. A grandma. Sounds kinda nice, actually.”

“You’ll love her. And don’t worry about making any sort of impression. Though she might comment that your hair needs touching up. Do you do it yourself? I like it. It almost matches your eyes.” The words came out rapid-fire, all while Bucky was stirring the pasta, then switching to stirring the sauce. “Oh, grab Sid’s food? It should be cool enough for her.”

Feeling slightly off-balance at the comments about his appearance, Steve got Sid’s saucer out of the freezer. Almost no one mentioned his looks without making fun of them. Or wanting to touch him. That was why he wore long sleeves in public until it was absolutely too hot not to. He tried to sound normal when he answered, “Yeah. It’s been a couple months, and it’s time to do it again. It starts out a really bright cobalt blue, and then fades. This shade is just depressing though.” He couldn’t help but run his fingers through his turquoise hair self-consciously.

Bucky laughed, but it was a nice laugh, not mocking at all. “Are you going to redo it before Wednesday? ’Cause if you are, Viola will kill me. She tried to be Cookie Monster one Halloween, only the blue didn’t work out really well. I think she used Kool-Aid.”

“It’s hard to get Kool-Aid to show up on dark hair. Or did she bleach it first?” Steve could only assume that the youngest sister had the same hair color as her brother. “I’d be happy to give her tips, if that won’t get us in trouble with someone.”

“Are you kidding? She’d love you. And hey...” Bucky’s eyes lit up as he took in Steve’s fading hair again. “You a natural blond?”

“Sort of?” Steve tried not to look uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “Not a pretty, yellow blond. More of a sandy blond if you desaturated the hue. Why?”

“Then you’ve _maybe_ escaped being Big Bird, if she’s still on a Sesame Street kick. I mean, she’s outgrown it, but your hair’s not orange enough to be a fraggle.”

A smirk tugged on Steve’s lips, making him answer, even if he sounded like a dork. “Actually, one of the fraggles has light blue hair. I can’t remember her name, but... yeah.”

“Okay, that’s it. Wednesday is off,” Bucky declared. “Viola takes one look at you, and she’ll end up keeping you.”

How was it only the very young and the very old members of Bucky’s family that were sure to want him? Steve tried to sound like he wasn’t disappointed. At least he and Bucky still lived in the same building and would share Sid’s affection. “Whatever you want. It’s your family — your restaurant. I guess you could come by the cart, but I don’t know what your machine is like.”

“I think it’s an Illy? It’s big and old fashioned looking. You’ll see.” Bucky started scooping pasta from the water and dropping it right into the sauce. “The restaurant’s half old and half updated. It’s kind of a weird mix, but it works. I mean, I guess it does. The food gets great reviews.”

 _You’ll see?_ Okay, so maybe Bucky wasn’t going to keep him away from the restaurant, even with all the competition. No, that wasn’t the right word. That made it sound like Bucky wanted Steve’s attention for himself. Which was absurd. He tried to clear his head and focus on the conversation. “The food’s what matters, but if the decor can sort of skirt the line of retro and modern, that might just work.”

“Well, if you have any ideas, feel free.” Bucky wrinkled his nose adorably. God, _nobody_ was supposed to be this adorable before five a.m. “The only one in my family who has taste is my mom, and she thinks if two colors are good, six are better, and ten is just perfect.”

 _Shit._ That sounded like a design nightmare. Color was another thing Steve knew a shit-ton about, but the last thing he needed was to butt heads with Bucky’s _mom_ over the decor of her restaurant. “I’m sure she’s done fine. But for future reference, three is the magic number, and the third one is only an accent color.”

“And yet, it’s Viola — number four — who’s the most extraordinary of all of us,” Bucky said with another laugh. “Of course, if you called Kimberly — that’s number three — an ‘accent,’ she’d probably deck you, so don’t do that. And c’mere. See this? This is important.”

Steve stepped close, happy for a distraction from the fact that he’d lost the thread of Bucky’s conversation. Especially because it _did_ feel important to be almost shoulder to shoulder with this beautiful, animated boy who loved Steve’s cat and made delicious food at ridiculous hours of the night.

“The pasta water has starch in it. And by dumping the pasta in the sauce and letting it cook there for the last half — of the cooking time, I mean — it gets the flavor into the pasta. And see how the sauce is really thick?” Bucky scooped the spoon through it, demonstrating just how thick it really was. “You mix in just a little of the pasta water, and it emulsifies the olive oil and any grease from the sausage, turning it into sauce instead of lumpy tomatoes sliding off the pasta.”

Bucky was so proud and seemed to enjoy the demonstration so very much that Steve didn’t dare tell him there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d ever make spaghetti sauce from scratch like this. He’d sure as hell eat it, though. “That looks amazing, Buck.”

Practically glowing at the compliment, Bucky said, “It’ll be ready in just another couple of minutes. And if it all comes together kind of weird, I’m sorry in advance, and I can make you an egg sandwich or something. Though I guess it was a hit with Sid there.”

Sure enough, Sid had cleaned her plate of the whole puddle of sauce and all but a little bite of the sausage. Now, she was sitting on the table, tail curled around her feet, chewing on her claws as though sharpening them. Not that they needed sharpening.

Steve looked back at Bucky and wanted to touch him so badly that he had to step away. He headed over to the table and held his hand out for Sid to sniff before he pet her head. “I’m sure it’ll be delicious. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal like this in ages.”

Bucky’s smile was brighter than the rising sun. “If you really like it, do me a favor?”

“Sure.” Steve was pretty sure he’d do just about anything for Bucky at this point, and he hadn’t even tasted the food yet.

“Pass me your plate.” Bucky held out his hand, and when Steve gave him the plate, he said, “If you like it, tell Nana. ’Cause she thinks I’ll never be half as good a cook as she is.”

Well, it seemed they really were already at the ‘meet the family’ stage — which could only mean this wasn’t headed anywhere but friendship. Granted, it wasn’t like Steve had so many friends he didn’t need one more. In fact, it wasn’t like Steve had _any_ friends, really.

“Yeah, no problem. Happy to help.” That was a rare sentiment for Steve, but he genuinely felt it. Probably because it seemed Bucky would be willing to do the same thing for Steve. And he hadn’t had someone act like that in a really long time. Steve really was lucky to have found this guy, no matter how things panned out.


	4. Chapter 4

_Oh, my God._ Bucky locked the front door and leaned against it. Only the trembling of his caffeinated muscles kept him from sinking to the floor. Wired, exhausted, elated. God, Steve was fun and exciting and sexy, and he actually seemed to _like_ Bucky. And that _never_ happened.

He finally pushed away from the door and went to the kitchen. His sink was full of dishes, the pots were still on the stove, and Sid was snoring gently on the table, tail resting in her bowl of water. Weird cat, just like her equally weird human. And Bucky was utterly smitten by them both. Hell, only his fear of stereotyping — the artsy-means-gay thing — had kept him from doing something overt, like giving Steve his phone number.

Of course, he’d sent Steve off with a half-dozen to-go containers of leftover appetizers and dinners along with the cannolis. If giving a guy your phone number meant you were interested in him, what did giving him two days’ worth of sort-of-home-cooked meals mean? And what if that guy left his purebreed Maine Coon kitten sleeping on your kitchen table?

The only thing Bucky knew for certain was that the caffeine wasn’t helping him think. He picked up the pot of sauce and put it in the fridge, where there was now room on the top shelf. The rest of the dishes could wait.

“C’mon, Sid. Time for bed.” Bucky scooped up the kitten, who was limp as a dishrag, and cuddled her to his chest. Too bad it wasn’t her human that he was cuddling.

Well, maybe. One day. Assuming Bucky got up the guts to say something and that Steve was interested, though why the _hell_ Steve would be interested in someone so boring... Steve was a sexy punk who worked at a trendy coffee cart, and Bucky worked at the family restaurant. The only way they could be more opposite was if Bucky had been an accountant or something.

But instead of having Bucky arrested for kitten-napping or punching him out, Steve had hung out with him for almost an hour and a half. He’d left only when he realized he’d be late for work — and he’d let Sid stay, saying she’d be more comfortable with company, and Bucky had promised to leave the window open so she could go back home whenever she wanted.

Though as he got into bed and let Sid curl up next to him, he couldn’t help but want someone else in her place — or maybe on the other side, since Sid was pretty cute on her own. _Like kitten, like human,_ he thought, wondering what Steve might like for dinner next time. Maybe seafood. They could all share that.

 

~~~

 

Steve was more awake than he’d been at work for months — not since that day he’d had eight shots of espresso in about half an hour. But this wasn’t the kind of awake caffeine caused; it was an awake born from excitement. And possibly a somewhat normal blood sugar level.

Bucky’s food had been insanely delicious. Then again, Steve wasn’t a hard sell given the stupidly simple stuff he made for himself. But on top of the really good food was the really good company. Not only was Bucky incredibly easy on the eyes, but he was funny and kind and easy to talk to. Steve didn’t just want to get him in bed — though that was something he definitely wanted. He also wanted to sit at a table with Bucky and talk, make him laugh, hear stories about his family, because clearly he cared a lot about them. And that was kind of new. And exciting enough to keep Steve awake throughout his shift, even though he’d gotten almost no sleep last night.

Wonder of wonders, Steve had made a friend. Too bad he wanted to fuck his friend into his mattress so hard the springs squealed. In an attempt to not fantasize about that all day, Steve kept his sketchbook handy when business was slow. All he ended up drawing, however, were studies of the line of Bucky’s jaw and neck, the expressiveness of his hands when he talked, the way Sid looked contentedly draped over his arms like she was liquid.

It was a long eight hours before he got off work so he could go home and, well, get off to thinking about finding Bucky in his bed instead of Sid. Just before he came, Steve wondered if Bucky’s skin tasted anything like his cooking. Right after, he tried not to despair about never getting a chance to find out.

 

~~~

 

The next morning, Steve woke up to Sid yowling, not at the window but at the front door.

“Sid, I swear to God, if this becomes a habit I’m going to let you go visit your boyfriend and then close the window behind you.”

It was four-thirty, so he figured he might as well get up, instead of throwing pillows in the direction of Sid’s yowling in an ineffectual attempt to make her stop. When he tromped over to her in a cold fury, she rubbed up against his shins, then scratched at the door, never giving up on the damned yowling. Steve peered out the peephole, but there was no one there. To keep Sid from scraping the paint off the door, however, he figured he should open it to show her.

He picked her up and unlocked the door, then tugged it open, saying, “Look, there’s no one—” He broke off, because on the floor in front of his door was a white plastic bag with _Thank You!_ printed in bright red. Inside was another bag, handles tied together around the distinctive round shape of stacked leftover tins, identical to the two still in his fridge from yesterday. A long, thin strip of paper, like from a cash register, was tucked into the tied handles.

Sid yowled and scratched at Steve’s arm like an addict needing a fix. “Hold your god-damned horses, asshole.” Steve picked up the bag, then dropped Sid so he could close the door, and headed to the kitchen counter to open his package. Sid trailed after, still yowling, as if Steve were going to keep it all to himself. By now he knew better — the scratches on his hand from last night were a vivid reminder.

He slid the paper out and unfolded it, his heart rate higher than it should have been. This was a nice neighborly gift, not a Valentine or some shit.

_Steve & Sid,  
_ _Hope you get this before five. Heat or fridge it by then. Throw it out if later. Restaurant address is on the card in the bag. See you tonight? Come by anytime.  
_ _Enjoy!  
_ _— B_

Steve set the note aside, trying not to freak out about tonight, especially the ‘ _come by anytime_ ’ part. That was going to be stressful. He opened the inside bag and plucked the card off the top container, setting it on top of the note before taking the lids off the tins, fending off Sid the whole time. Garlic bread with a plastic container of chopped up tomatoes and another of shredded cheese, stuffed shells in white sauce, and what looked like a piece of salmon sitting on top of a baggie full of ice to keep it fresh. The lid on the last one was labelled _For Sid_ with a lopsided smiley face underneath, only one with pointy ears and fangs. He’d forgotten to add whiskers, so it looked like a cat-vampire hybrid.

“No wonder you yelled so much, you lucky bastard.” Steve pulled off a chunk of the salmon and held it out to Sid, who nearly took off his finger, she chomped down so hard and fast. “Jesus,” Steve hissed, then nudged Sid off the counter. He looked at the rest of the food and wondered if it went into the oven or the microwave, and if the latter, could he just leave it in all the tins it came in? He had no desire to wait until after work to eat Bucky’s gift — the warmth of it would keep him going all through his shift.

As he tried out the oven theory, he wished for the thousandth time that he had Bucky’s number. Then he could thank Bucky for the food and confirm a good time for tonight, even though he had no idea what to do about that. He got off work on a good day by about three, so he would have tons of time to freak out about whether seven was too early if Bucky wasn’t going to be able to hang out until nine.

Steve actually kind of wanted to meet Bucky’s family because they all sounded really interesting. Or maybe it was because he was sure it would make Bucky happy for whatever reason. But two hours of playing nice with a bunch of people who might not like him but would feel obligated to be nice — or maybe they wouldn’t, and things would just get awkward — sounded like torture. Steve was borderline misanthropic on a good day, and after working customer service for at least eight hours was the worst time to try to meet new people. But Steve was curious about what Nana must be like, and Viola sounded like fun — possibly a young punk in the making — so maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. It wasn’t like he needed the free meal, since Bucky had kept him fully stocked with more food than he could finish.

 _Later,_ he thought. There was tons of time to figure out when he should show up at the restaurant, and then how the fuck to get there. At the moment, feeding Sid and getting ready for work were his top priorities.

 

~~~

 

The problem with Barnes Bistro was that it wasn’t meant to be popular. Not by modern standards, anyway. But in part because Grandpa had bought the building decades ago, the bistro had survived the neighborhood’s growth, decline, and now gentrification, without being forced to leave due to escalating rent. And though the corner market had been replaced by the vegan restaurant, there were no less than three new coffee shops in walking distance, and the local bars now had open poetry night instead of Monday Night Football, the bistro had survived. Thrived, even, to the point where every night was bustling. At least, that was how it felt after a few hours of seating, serving, cashing out, and bussing.

But despite the rush, Bucky couldn’t lose himself in his job the way he usually did. He kept checking the time on his phone to the point where one of his regulars, sitting at the bar, asked if he was expecting a call from his girlfriend.

If only. Well, not _girlfriend_ , unless Sid counted. But Steve... No, nice as girls could be, Bucky definitely didn’t want a girlfriend.

And Steve was apparently just as much of a tiny, sneaky bastard as Sid. One minute, table twelve was empty; the next, Steve was sitting there. His turquoise hair was combed back wet, and he was wearing a plaid button down shirt open over a T-shirt with some geometric design on it. It wasn’t like he was wearing anything fancy, but somehow the outfit looked _nice._

He was looking around, a little dazed, probably by the weirdness of the decor. Reviewers were constantly calling it either “eccentric” if they liked it or “kitschy” if not, though it wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the big chain places. To Bucky’s eyes, it looked a little shabby. He hoped like hell that Steve wouldn’t hate it.

Twelve wasn’t one of Bucky’s tables, but he headed that way anyway. He had the ridiculous urge to take away the menu, which Mom had helped to design. Thank God Rebecca had stopped it from going to print with Comic Sans, but it had been a close call.

Bucky thought up and discarded a dozen opening lines. He wanted to be calm and collected, friendly without being too eager. And he was _not_ going to blurt out anything stupid. Not if he practiced in his head and remembered to breathe.

But when he reached the table, all the came out was, “Hey, Steve,” delivered with a silly smile that probably looked borderline crazy. And Bucky realized how ridiculous he looked in the restaurant’s quasi-uniform of black slacks, white shirt, and black tie. The blood red apron around his waist didn’t help.

“Hey.” It was almost a sigh, and Bucky wondered if Steve had had a long day. His face looked a mix of relieved and worried. “I just sat down to get out of the way. I can go in the back if you want...”

“No! No, stay.” Bucky’s grin got even worse, but he couldn’t seem to control it. “Uh, it’s not my table, but can I make a couple suggestions?”

“I don’t have to eat. I can just hang out until you’re free. You’ve fed me a ton already this week.” Steve’s smile was tight, but his eyes were smiling too, so at least Bucky didn’t think Steve hated him.

“Oh, my God. Don’t say that. Nana’s psychic or something.” Bucky couldn’t resist leaning over, one hand on the back of his chair, to scan the menu over his shoulder. “Everything marked with this blob that looks like a blood splatter is really good.”

“I could just have a small plate of pasta or something. But what’s your favorite?” Steve turned from the menu to look at Bucky, and for a second their faces were inches apart. Then he leaned back in his chair, trapping Bucky’s thumb against his back, his eyebrows up.

“Honestly?” Bucky glanced around, then actually dared to lean in closer so he could softly whisper, “Kung pao chicken.”

Steve frowned for just a heartbeat before he threw his head back and laughed. “Well, maybe some time I can leave that on _your_ doorstep. That way no one will know you didn’t eat Italian food for one meal of your life.” His grin was wide and playful, and Bucky just stared despite telling himself to stop. “By the way, thanks for the delivery this morning. It was a fantastic breakfast, and you made Sid a very happy little monster.”

“The fish was okay? I poached it, no spices, just in case. And the ice didn’t melt? I didn’t want it going bad.”

“I don’t know when you left it, but she woke me at four-thirty to get it for her, and then ate almost the whole thing before I headed out. When I fed her cat food a few hours ago, she looked at me like I was a jackass.” Steve ducked his head and looked around as if worried he’d offended with his language.

“Bad human,” Bucky scolded, focusing on the menu so he didn’t stare even more. “But here. White sauce or red? Fish, veal, chicken, or vegetarian?”

“Jesus. I dunno. Just something simple. I already got your fancy shells this morning.” Steve looked down at the menu and shifted in his seat, then looked up at the tables around them. “And don’t worry about me if you’ve gotta work. I should have come by later.”

“Relax.” Bucky squeezed Steve’s bony shoulder before he could stop himself, and the only reason he let go — possibly ever — was because Gina, Steve’s server, showed up at his table with a curious smile. She was a distant cousin on Dad’s side, so Bucky said, “Gina, this is my friend, Steve.”

“Hi, Steve,” she said, unleashing a borderline-flirty smile that had Bucky growling inside. “Welcome to Barnes Bistro.”

Jealousy propelled Bucky into interrupting before Steve could flirt back: “Can you get him the dinner special? Oh, and the calamari to start. You’re okay with calamari, right, Steve? And did you want wine or something else to drink?”

Steve was looking back and forth between them, his eyebrows up. “Sure? Um, water’s fine.” He leaned in towards Bucky and said in a low voice, “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Don’t make me sic Nana on you,” Bucky threatened.

“Oh, no. Uh uh,” Gina said, holding up her hands. “If it’s Nana or food, pick the food. Trust me. You’ll love it.”

Bucky gave Steve’s shoulder another squeeze and tried to memorize the contour of his collarbone. “Just save room for dessert.”

Steve looked up at Bucky, and for a split second there was a breathtakingly feral edge to his gaze, but it was gone so fast, Bucky thought he’d imagined it. “Will do. Thanks.”

Gina winked at them both, not just at Steve, which threw Bucky for a moment. “Calamari, special, water, and dessert later. You got it.” She walked off, heading for the computers near the back.

“Uh.” Bucky realized he still had his hand on Steve’s shoulder, and he tried to be casual about pulling away. “So, I’ve got a couple more tables, but then I’m done. No sneaking out on me, okay?”

“Look, despite popular belief, Sid and I are not exactly the same.” Steve’s grin was sharp enough to cut. “Besides, I thought I was here to look at the espresso machine.”

“ _After_ I feed you. It’s that or I sic Nana on you now, and you end up getting fed anyway.” To keep from touching Steve again, Bucky took away the menu. “But if you’re really feeling like you’re in the way, I can check and see if Viola’s done with her homework. She wants to meet you.”

“I just don’t want to make more work for anyone.” Steve crossed his arms over his narrow chest and sort of hugged himself. Then he looked up at Bucky almost hopefully and added, “But if Viola’s free, send her over.”

“You’re _not_ any trouble, I promise,” Bucky assured him, taking a step away from the table. “I’ll be back in a few. Relax. Enjoy the, uh, ambiance or something.”

Steve’s tight smile was back, but he nodded. “Thanks, Buck. It’s nice here.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Remind me to never let you pick out wallpaper,” he said before he walked away, and it took him a good three steps to realize how _domestic_ that sounded.

Well, shit. Was that an obvious slip? It probably was. Now he _really_ had reason to panic.

 

~~~

 

 _Wallpaper?_ Steve shook his head. The decor of the place wasn’t what Steve had meant. The restaurant really had a nice feel to it. And that wasn’t just because Bucky made Steve feel so good he couldn’t sit still. There was something _homey_ about it. Lived in. Like you were eating dinner at your aunt’s place on a weeknight, and she’d made your favorite meal. Steve was a little worried about taking up one of Gina’s tables, but she seemed really nice, so maybe if Steve thanked her — or tipped her with some of his own tips from his shift earlier — she wouldn’t hate him.

He got out his sketchbook, because otherwise he’d be way too fidgety to look normal, and started sketching out the scene in front of him — tables and chairs, groups of people eating and talking and laughing. He couldn’t help drawing Bucky in at one of his tables, smiling and joking and being his charming self. Watching him make a group of women giggle caused Steve’s pencil to dig into the page too much, and after trying for another minute to work around it, he turned the page and tried again.

This time, he stuck to still life. The lamps on the checked tablecloths, the trinkets on the shelves, the pictures of family dating back who knew how far. The fall of Gina’s hair over her shoulder as she brought Steve’s calamari, which he nibbled at nervously and drew with passing accuracy.

The tip of his pencil on paper didn’t ever stop moving, and every stroke helped to calm his nerves and give him distance until everything in the restaurant was something to capture on the page and bring to life there, rather than something he had to interact with in real time. Soon, he wasn’t all twisted up over seeing — and being touched by — Bucky, or even about effectively being out to eat on someone else’s dime. He was just an eye and a hand holding a pencil, and his whole purpose was to recreate the vision before him in his sketchbook where he could keep it.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, though the plate of calamari was almost empty, when there was a flash of movement and the chair opposite him thumped and screeched as a weight was thrown into it. When he looked up, startled, he saw a small person with short hair tumbling down in messy curls, a sharp grin, and the same bright blue eyes as Bucky.

Presumably, this was Viola, though Steve wouldn’t have vouched for the gender of the kid.

“Hi,” she — _maybe_ — said cheerfully.

“Hey. Want some calamari?” Steve drew attention to the last couple fried rings on the plate as he closed his sketchbook and rested his elbow on it. His drawings weren’t for public consumption — especially not for little eyes.

“Nah, I had dinner. You’re not scared of squid, huh? That’s good,” she said, eyeing him critically. “Bucky likes it.”

Steve smiled warmly, hoping to win her over. “He’s the one who ordered it, to be honest. And I sorta wasn’t paying attention while I ate it...” He shook his head, then added, “But yeah, it’s not bad with enough sauce.”

She huffed and craned her neck, asking, “What’re you drawing?”

“Um... Stuff? Just the things around the place...” Steve gestured vaguely, keeping his elbow firmly on the sketchbook. About two pages back from where he’d been working were some speculative nudes that he wouldn’t let Viola see on pain of death, mostly because some of them might be vaguely recognizable to her.

“Bucky said you work at a coffee place. You’re also an artist?”

“Yeah? Kinda. I can draw all right, and I did some painting in college, but I’d really like to learn how to tattoo.” Steve shrugged and said, “I hear you’re good at chemistry. That true?”

She nodded, grin flashing back to life. “Yeah. I’m in advanced chemistry. And math, too. Do you have tattoos?”

Steve didn’t remember learning any sort of chemistry until he was in high school. This kid looked grade school-aged. He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You know, that’s actually a secret I don’t tell many people, but yeah. I do. And _maybe_ I’ll let you see some of them later, but you can’t tell Bucky.”

She went adorably wide-eyed. “You mean you’re _not_ having sex with him?”

 _“What?”_ The word was shocked out of Steve’s mouth. “No! We just met a few days ago. Give me _some_ credit.” He tried to unfurrow his brow, but when he saw her scowl, his worried frown just got deeper, and he started twirling the pencil in his hand to calm down.

“Don’t you _like_ my brother?” she asked, though it came out sounding more like a threat.

“I...” Jesus, how did he end up in a situation of telling someone _else_ things he didn’t have the guts to tell Bucky himself? Especially when that someone probably had a very sketchy definition of discretion. “I _do_ like him. He seems like a great guy, but I don’t really know him. Like I said, we just met. I’m just here to help with the espresso machine.”

She frowned even more — God, she’d be _terrifying_ once she got older. “Uh huh,” she grunted skeptically. “So you don’t have _another_ boyfriend, girlfriend, or significant other?” The way it came out implied she had a mental checklist of questions for this interrogation.

If anything could make Steve more nervous about interacting with Bucky than being ‘vetted’ by his youngest sibling, Steve didn’t know what it was. This felt like a sick joke at the moment, so Steve tried to make light of it. That way he wouldn’t lose his nerve and walk out. “Nope. But I think you should know, Bucky’s only interested in me for my cat.”

The frown disappeared under a bright smile, and her eyes lit up. Thank God _something_ about this particular sibling was age-normal. “Is she really a Maine Coon? They can get huge.”

Steve nodded and smiled, trying to hide his relief that the line of questioning had taken a turn. Thank God for Sid. “Yep. I’m counting on it. Though soon she’ll be too big to ride around on Bucky’s shoulders.” Too late, he realized how intimate that sounded — that Bucky and Steve’s cat were hanging out so much. No wonder Viola had gotten the wrong idea.

Her smile went sharp. “Bigger than you?”

“Ah.” Steve grimaced and leaned back in his chair. It was like getting slapped, having his size pointed out. He couldn’t get angry at a child for saying it, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. He turned the grimace into a sort of smile and said, “Not quite, but maybe as big as you. With sharp claws, and big teeth, and a bad attitude, unless you feed her spaghetti sauce. Or meatballs.”

“Hey!” Bucky’s voice sounded right behind Steve, who realized that Viola must have seen her brother but hidden any sign of it from her expression. Sneak. Bucky’s hands went right to the back of Steve’s chair, fingers pressing against his shoulderblades. “I see you met Viola. What’re you two talking about?”

“His cat,” Viola answered innocently, grinning at her brother.

“I, uh, sorta told her about Sid,” Bucky said sheepishly.

“Not surprising,” Steve said, tilting his head back to see Bucky’s face. Everything inside him still felt sharp, so he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Since you’re her boyfriend.”

“Hey —”

Viola cut off Bucky’s protest, saying, “He feeds _both_ of you,” with a viciously triumphant smile.

The implication of Viola’s words made Steve lower his chin to look at her instead of Bucky. “Yeah, well, she and I are roommates. That’s how it works, kiddo.” He needed a new distraction for Viola, and fast. “Wanna see pictures of her?”

“Yeah!” she said, and she stuck out her hand, fingers twitching.

Bucky’s fingers prodded at Steve’s back, and he leaned down. “Thanks,” he murmured. Then, a bit more loudly, he asked, “Want me to wrap up the calamari to take home? Your dinner’s almost up.”

Looking at the almost empty plate, Steve huffed in amusement. He was frugal, but that was a ridiculous amount to take home. “That’s more work than it’s worth. Just leave it, and when you’re done working you can sit and eat with me.” He turned to look at Bucky and added, “If that’s allowed. _Someone_ mentioned you like squid.”

Grinning down at Steve — practically close enough to kiss — Bucky leaned even closer and reached past him. He picked up one of the breaded rings and swiped it through the sauce. “Yeah, I do,” he said, popping it into his mouth.

Trying hard to catch his breath, Steve locked eyes with Bucky and found the voice to say, “Good. All yours, then.”

Bucky picked up the last ring with one hand and the plate with his other. He lifted them high to get them away from Steve. “Ten minute warning, V.”

She heaved a deep sigh. “Bucky...”

“Ten minutes. School night, remember?”

She wrinkled her nose at him, then turned her laser focus back on Steve. “Pictures.”

With a quiet laugh, Bucky told Steve, “I’ll be back in a few. You need anything else? More water?”

“Running shoes to keep up with this one?” Steve hooked his thumb at Viola, then reached into his pocket for his phone.

“They won’t help. Believe me,” Bucky said, switching the plate to his other hand so he could give Steve’s shoulder another quick squeeze. “Viola, be nice.”

“I’m always nice. It’s not my fault if people can’t recognize it,” she declared.

Well, if _that_ wasn’t a brilliant way of putting it. Viola was a kid after Steve’s own heart, even after getting the third degree from her. “I’ll drink to that,” Steve said, raising his water glass.

She beamed at him. “I’ll need a cappuccino, Bucky.”

“No, because one, it’s a school night, and two, you’re terrifying when you’re caffeinated,” Bucky said.

“Hmph. I won’t protest only because your coffee is so bad.” She turned a speculative eye on Steve. “Are you working Saturday?”

“Working? Yeah, why?” Steve frowned. Did Viola know _everything_ about him already?

“Good. Then you” — she grinned at Bucky — “can take me there Saturday morning after pancakes.”

“Uh. V...” Bucky gave Steve a faint smile, then told Viola, “Only if it’s okay with Steve. We’re not supposed to bug people at work.”

“You’re working, and he came to visit you,” she countered.

“Well, yeah, but he didn’t bring a pain in the butt little sister.”

She stuck out her tongue. One more thing that was age-normal for her.

“And I’m supposed to be helping with your espresso machine,” Steve felt the need to remind Bucky. Then he looked at Viola and added, “If you come in the morning, it’s just me, so my boss can’t get mad. But Saturdays are pretty busy at the market.”

“So _no bugging_ ,” Bucky warned her. “And it’s eight minutes now. Back in a flash, Steve.”

Viola’s eyes narrowed as she watched Bucky leave. Then she twitched her fingers at Steve and said, “Pictures. And then you’ve got seven minutes to explain your intentions with my brother. Better make it good. I know how to make explosives.”

Jesus. She was terrifying _now,_ never mind when she got older. “So I’ve heard. Wanna tell me about how you do it?” He unlocked his phone and pulled up the frankly absurd number of pictures he had of Sid, then handed it over. There wasn’t anything inappropriate on his phone, so he didn’t care if she looked through it.

“Nope. I don’t share trade secrets,” she said loftily, her voice at odds with her slightly goofy smile as she swiped through his photos. “But if you’re really any good with coffee _and_ with my brother, I might give you the names of a book or two.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Steve said thoughtlessly as he surreptitiously opened his sketchbook to a clean page, then started trying to capture Viola’s curls.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well, what’s gotten into you?” Bucky’s mom asked, coming up behind him to give him a rib-crushing hug.

“Huh?” he grunted, pulling his hand away from the touchscreen before he could hit the wrong icon by accident.

“You’re humming. Good tips?”

Bucky’s stomach gave a flip as he realized that giving her an honest answer would lead to something horrible, like her meeting Steve. But lying wasn’t an option. Winifred “Call Me Fred” Barnes was a walking, breathing lie detector.

“Just... wrapping my shift,” he said, pointedly tapping the screen.

She gave him another squeeze, then stepped to the side of the counter so she could grin at him. She was the spitting image of the two middle sisters — if the two middle sisters gained twenty pounds and permed their hair. “Will I see you this weekend? Or did you want to come home with us now?”

“Uh. No, Saturday. Pancakes with Viola,” he said with a shaky, relieved laugh. He’d herded Viola away from Steve’s table not two minutes ago. “She’s getting her coat now.”

Mom tipped her head, looking at him curiously. “Oh. Well, okay. Want a ride home?”

“Nope. I’m good. I was going to futz with the espresso machine.”

“No caffeine at this hour,” she warned, wagging her finger at him. “Your circadian rhythms —”

“Are off, yeah,” he finished for her, hopeful that he’d be able to see her off without incident.

“I just worry.” She ruffled his hair before he could duck out of reach. She had that Mom-superpower of making him feel five years old even now. “Saturday — _Viola!”_ She looked past Bucky and beckoned.

Viola ran up, carrying an orange and white messenger bag with the Aperture Science logo on it, which was ominous. “Hi, Mom. Dad says he swears he’s leaving at eleven.”

“Uh huh. We’ll believe it...”

“When we see it,” Viola finished.

Mom grinned at her. “Say goodnight and let’s get you home.”

Viola turned and imperiously lifted her chin. Bucky obligingly leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Bye, little terror,” he told her.

Her eyes gleamed, and instead of saying goodbye, she turned and took hold of Mom’s hand. “C’mon, Mom. I’ll tell you _all about_ Bucky’s new boyfriend in the car.”

 _Oh, shit,_ Bucky thought, glaring at her, trying to psychically will her to silence — which didn’t work, of course.

And, worse, Mom shot Bucky a disbelieving look. “At least _one_ of you will!”

“Mom, he’s not —”

“They’re even timesharing a cat,” Viola declared smugly.

Bucky glared at her. “Tabloid journalist,” he muttered, turning back to the computer.

She laughed and dragged their mom away — thankfully out the back, rather than going through the dining room. Bucky had no doubt she would’ve pointed Steve out, given half a chance. Hell, she might just bring Mom around to the front of the building to peer at him through the window like a zoo exhibit.

As soon as he heard the back door alarm chirp, he let out a relieved sigh and went back to closing out his shift. Then he recorded his cash tips to be split, got rid of his apron, and went to the employee bathroom to quickly wash up. He was tempted to go upstairs to grab a clean shirt from Nana’s apartment, but Steve had already been alone for too long. He settled for getting rid of his tie and undoing the top couple of buttons on his shirt.

Then he got himself a glass of water and went out to the dining room. Steve was digging into his chicken parmagiana with apparent enthusiasm, though he kept pausing to pick up a pencil. It looked like he was drawing, concentrating fiercely enough that Bucky hesitated to disturb him.

“Uh. Hey,” Bucky said, stopping a foot or so away from the table.

“Hey,” Steve replied, before looking up from his work. He frowned at Bucky for a second, then he blinked and closed his sketchboook as he gestured to Viola’s chair. “Have a seat?”

“Oh, shit. What’d she do?” Bucky asked, sinking into the chair. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing, she was great. Though it’s possible she hangs out with her older sisters a little too much.” Steve smile went a little shy, almost apologetic.

“She, uh, doesn’t get along with Rebecca and Kimmy. She hangs out with _Mom_ too much,” Bucky said, wondering if his dad had ever managed to work out the theoretical principles of time travel. He needed a do-over for tonight. “Mom’s kind of got no filters. Which is great, I mean, but... not so great, too.”

“Is that why Viola questioned my intentions and assumed we were fucking?” Steve asked quietly with a healthy dose of snark, though it looked like his neck flushed pink, and he broke eye contact to stare down at the pencil in his hand.

“Oh, my God,” Bucky muttered, slouching down and closing his eyes for a moment. He’d talked to Viola about Steve _way_ too much, and now he had no chance in hell, because Steve wouldn’t want anything to do with a crazy family like Bucky’s. And that was assuming Steve didn’t get pissed for Viola — and Bucky, sort of — thinking he might be interested in a guy. “I’m so sorry. I’ll go home, change all the locks. Never let her out of the house again.”

With a little adorable chuckle, Steve said, “It’s fine. Kept me on my toes. Besides, I thought you were coming to the coffee cart on Saturday. After pancakes.” His smile was all sideways, and it made Bucky’s heart skip.

“You don’t hate us, then?” Bucky asked just a little desperately. “You don’t think we’re crazy?”

“I mean, she’s terrifying, but kind of amazing. Sort of like you, but yeah, no filters.” Steve looked down again and flipped open his sketchbook, then slid it halfway across the table without letting go. “And she likes Sid, too. See?”

The drawing was stunning — an image of Viola, head tilted, looking down at a smartphone cradled in her hands. Sketchy lines hinted at the restaurant in the background. “Wow,” Bucky said softly, jealousy flaring bright inside himself. He was damned good at science and math, but his artistic skills were pretty bad. He hadn’t even inherited his dad’s ability to draw buildings, plans, and blueprints. “Steve, this is fantastic.”

“You want it?” Steve said it like it was no big thing. “Show it to her, if you want? Or whatever.”

“I couldn’t. I mean, don’t you need it for your” — what did artists have? — “your portfolio or whatever? To show people?”

“Nah. This is just practice.” He tapped his finger on the sketchbook. “One sec, I need a straight edge.” He slid out of his chair and grabbed a menu from the server’s station, then used the side of it to draw a dark line down the inner edge of the picture. He folded the page over the edge of the menu and tore it neatly out of the book, then slid it across the table to Bucky.

This time, Bucky’s jealousy was aimed purely at his sister. It was terribly unfair that Steve had drawn her after all of fifteen or twenty minutes, even though he’d known Bucky for much longer. “She’ll love it.” Bucky summoned up a smile for Steve, because the art really was gorgeous. “Thank you.”

“Sure. You want one? Or do we need to get started on the machine?” The offer was casual, but seemed genuine, delivered softly as Steve twirled the pencil in his hand.

_Yes._

But Steve was a guest, here to help, not to take requests. Bucky pointed at the plate and said, “You need to finish dinner. Nana comes down every night after closing to talk to the manager, and if you’re still here, she’ll ask if I fed you.”

“You _did_ feed me. I’m fed. This plate is huge, especially after all that calamari. I should have saved you more of that.” Steve smiled and pushed the plate an inch toward Bucky. “If you aren’t sick of this, you’re welcome to it. It’s delicious, but filling.”

Bucky laughed and kicked at Steve’s foot under the table before he could stop himself. God, he _needed_ to stop looking for excuses to casually touch. Steve hadn’t objected, but not saying “no” wasn’t saying “yes”. Hooking his feet behind his chair legs, Bucky teased, “What, so you can draw me stuffing my face?”

“That wasn’t my plan, but it’s easier to sketch someone when they aren’t paying attention. So, yeah. Sure. Stuff your face.” Steve pushed the plate another inch forward. “Let me pay for my meal _somehow._ ”

“If you show my sisters, I’ll bribe Sid to sleep on your head every night for a week straight,” Bucky threatened as he pushed his chair back. He went behind Steve to the server’s station to grab an extra set of silverware, then sat back down.

“What? You don’t think I can make you look pretty? Piece of cake.” Steve slouched in his chair and rested the sketchbook on the edge of the table, then looked up at Bucky as the scratch of his pencil became audible.

There was no better way to make a person feel self-conscious than to call them “pretty” while they were eating. Bucky was tempted to take a token few bites, then quit, but he really was hungry. He’d been too nervous to eat before, just knowing Steve was maybe going to come by tonight.

Then again, having him here was even worse for Bucky’s nerves. Just a couple of days ago, they’d spent over an hour hanging out in Bucky’s kitchen. Why was it that much more awkward to be with him at a restaurant — one that was much more familiar than the apartment, in fact, since it had been in the family for Bucky’s whole life?

“If you don’t want us there on Saturday, I can stop Viola,” Bucky blurted out after just two bites of what really was excellent chicken parmagiana. “I mean, maybe. Well, I _can_. She can’t drive herself anywhere, thank God. But she might kill me for it. I think she likes you. And _I_ like you. But she won’t kill you, so you’re safe.”

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_ The words only stopped when Bucky ran out of breath, leaving him staring across the table at Steve, just a little dizzy.

Steve looked up from his drawing and paused, blinking silently at Bucky for long enough to make him blush. “You can come. I just can’t promise I’ll be able to hang out. The market’s cool, though. The donut girl is nice, and the seafood guys are fun. I’d rather see you and know you were safe from Viola’s wrath than spend the day worrying she’d blown you to bits or something.” He smiled then looked back at his drawing as the pencil started moving again. “I like you both too much to let that happen.”

 _He likes me_. Bucky grinned and ducked his head, trying to hide his reaction behind a bite of chicken. Then again, Steve also liked Viola. And “like” didn’t mean “want to date” or even “want.”

“So, after dinner, you can come see the espresso machine?” Bucky asked, needing to fill the silence with more than the sound of Steve’s pencil. “Then we can have dessert. Or you can. Whatever you want.”

Steve didn’t move a muscle, but he flicked his eyes up to lock on Bucky’s. The intense gaze was heated and penetrating. “Really? Hmm. I’ll have to think about what I want, then.”

That was flirting. That had to be flirting. Hope and want and a tiny bit of fear all combined to make Bucky dizzy.

“I’ve got my car here,” he said, meeting Steve’s eyes as steadily as he could. “I can give you a ride home, after. We can bring something to Sid. You know, so she doesn’t get angry at us.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’m sure she’d like to see you.” Steve raised one eyebrow before breaking eye contact to focus on his drawing. “You finish your plate, and I’ll finish this, then we can get some work done before _dessert._ ”

The word came out so heavy with innuendo, the air over the table practically caught fire. Bucky’s cheeks went hot, and he grinned around his next bite of chicken. “You got it, Steve.”

 

~~~

 

 _Oh, God._ Was that what Steve thought it was? Did Bucky just agree to come back to Steve’s place and... what? Something. Probably not whatever Steve wanted because if so they’d be in bed for days, but _something_ was going to happen. And now Steve just had to wait for it. Which was something he was legitimately horrible at.

The longer he had to wait, the more he would second guess things, and by the time they left he would have convinced himself that dessert was just dessert, the ride home was simply being polite, and bringing something for Sid was because Bucky liked his cat more than he liked Steve.

There had to be some way to figure out what Bucky actually wanted, without being obvious about how desperately he wanted to fuck Bucky. But Steve didn’t have a tactful bone in his body, and more often than not he scared people away with his directness.

At least the sketch had come out okay. Not awesome, far from perfect, but good enough that he wouldn’t feel embarrassed by it. Then again, handing someone a picture of themselves always came with some form of embarrassment, if only because it showed how closely Steve had been watching them.

After another couple minutes of Bucky picking at his food and Steve’s pencil scratches as he finished cleaning up the lines, he tilted the sketchbook down to lay flat on the table and pushed it over. He stayed hunched down in his chair, trying to keep his breath normal as he watched Bucky’s eyes take in his work.

“Steve...” Bucky shook his head. “If I hadn’t _watched you_ , I’d think this took hours. God. This is amazing. I can’t even draw a stick figure. I think Dad’s still disappointed that I didn’t go into architecture, but all my buildings ended up looking like hobbit holes. Made by drunk hobbits.”

The compliment went straight to Steve’s cheeks, which felt hot as a furnace. Any other time, it would have upset him to blush in front of someone he liked, but for once it wasn’t due to his super power of making every situation extremely awkward. Usually for the other person. “Drafting just takes a straightedge. And a lot of fucking patience. Which I don’t have.”

“And talent, which you _do_ have,” Bucky said with a sweet smile.

Any more compliments, and Steve was going to catch fire. He sat up and grabbed the menu, using it to tear the drawing cleanly out of his book. Then he wrote “ _To B, Thanks for dinner. S. Rogers”_ on a blank spot on the page below Bucky’s hands. He slid the paper across the table, saying, “You done eating yet?”

Bucky grinned and stood up, carefully setting both drawings aside so he could stack Steve’s plates and silverware. “Yep. Let’s introduce you to the monster.”

“Sounds good. The quicker I can teach you how to tame it, the quicker we can... go hang out with Sid.” Steve winced as he chickened out on saying what he wanted. He stood and was acutely aware of the height difference between them. Even on his tiptoes he’d just barely reach Bucky’s lips. _God dammit._

“Yeah. Sid gets kinda lonely, I guess. At least, I hope. I mean, I don’t _hope_ , but I don’t want to think she’s using me for my cooking,” Bucky said in that non-stop way of his, as he went to put the dishes into a container at the server’s station.

 _Shit._ That was the last thing Steve wanted Bucky to think about _either_ of them. “Didn’t you say she’s been visiting for weeks? It was only recently she came home covered in sauce, so I think it’s safe to say she likes _you,_ as well as your cooking _._ ” He caught up with Bucky and smiled at him, nudging his side.

Bucky smiled back at him — _so close!_ — but then said, “Oh!” and slid past to grab the drawings off the table. “I don’t want to lose these. In fact, remind me to grab one of the magnets from the host station up front, so I can put mine on the fridge, at least until I can get a frame.”

Steve rolled his eyes, a ridiculous grin plastered across his face. One of his drawings hadn’t ended up on a fridge in more than a decade. Did it actually get cuter than that? “Yeah, okay, Mom.”

Laughing, Bucky nudged Steve with one elbow. “None of that. I’ll only take that shit from Sid.” His smirk softened. “Or whatever a cat co-parent is called.”

“Oh, is that how it is? We’re co-parenting now, not just timesharing? All right. I’m in.” Steve’s grin went sharp as he added, “I guess that means having visitation rights?”

“The window’s open. Come in any time,” Bucky teased as he bumped the kitchen door open with one hip.

That surprised a laugh out of Steve. It was a veiled comment about his size, but it was also an open invitation, and there was no way he could take offense at that. He followed Bucky into the kitchen as he said, “Don’t say it unless you mean it, pal. You’ll come home sometime to a cat _and_ a human eating you out of house and home.”

“Just wash your own dishes, and you’re welcome to anything in the kitchen.” Bucky raised his voice and said, “Hey, everyone? This is Steve. Steve, everyone.”

There were a handful of people in the kitchen, mostly cleaning up, washing dishes, and putting things away. They all turned to look, and Steve caught more than one sly, knowing grin amidst the waves and hellos.

Was this something Bucky did regularly? Invite someone to the restaurant before taking them home? Steve’s stomach knotted at the thought of being just one of Bucky’s many conquests. He waved half-heartedly and smiled with even less gusto, then followed Bucky to the silver monstrosity in the corner. It was a bad place for it, but looking around the crowded kitchen, there was nowhere _good_ for it, except maybe out front, near the customers.

“Rebecca did some research. Apparently a lot of the five-star places are using these Nespresso pod machines instead of something like this? But that sounds like a shortcut, and Nana doesn’t do shortcuts. So...” Bucky gestured at the espresso machine with a wry smile.

“Good. Because this is gorgeous.” Steve stepped up to the machine and looked closely at it. It was an old model of a high-end brand, and very little on it was automated. That made his job harder, but once Bucky got the hang of it, the coffee would benefit. “You’ve used it, right? So the lines are clear and the heating element works, and everything. Do you know how to clean it?”

“Yeah, it came with a manual, but it was kind of chewed up, so Rebecca downloaded a new one from the internet. And we hired someone to take it apart, de-scale it, all that.” Bucky’s smile turned sheepish. “Then we went through like twelve pounds of beans from everywhere you can imagine, trying to make espresso that didn’t suck. Sort of a learning curve from hell, that.”

Steve gave Bucky a tight smile and a nod. “Yeah. It’s not easy to get all the variables to work together.” He looked over the workstation, making sure all the equipment was in order, then said, “Okay. Let’s start with this. You make one and let me watch how you do it, then I’ll make one while you watch, and we can taste them both. Sound good?”

Bucky ducked his head again, focusing down at the two drawings he was still holding. “Mine’s going to be awful by comparison, though.”

“That’s okay, Buck.” Steve stepped close to Bucky, trying to catch his eye and smile in encouragement. “The point is for me to see what you’re doing... what needs improvement. And then we can work on those things. It’s not rocket science. There’s always a way to make it better.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, drawing out the word uncertainly. Then he shot Steve a quick smile and said, “Flip the switch, get it heated up for me? Let me put these” — he lifted the sketches — “somewhere safe and see what we’ve got for dessert.”

Wondering just how many desserts he’d have tonight, Steve grinned and said, “You do that. Grab some milk, too, so we can work on your foaming skills.”


	6. Chapter 6

“James!”

Bucky nearly jumped out of his skin, bumping into Steve, who’d thankfully learned to keep his hands steady working at the market or he would’ve splashed steaming milk everywhere. He twisted around and saw an iron-haired lady with warm olive skin and the darkest brown eyes Steve had ever seen. Her blouse was pristine white, ironed within an inch of its life, her slacks the same shade of gray as her hair. She looked like an investment banker. Or maybe a retired assassin considering one last job.

“Nana!” Bucky said with a grin, heading right for her.

 _This_ was Bucky’s grandmother? God, and Steve had thought Viola was terrifying. He looked back at the temperature gauge and got the milk fully up to temp, foaming it just right, before he set it down. Then he wiped down the steam wand, dried his hands on the towel, took a deep breath, and turned around to meet the matriarch of the family — and owner of the restaurant.

Bucky broke the hug, then turned to grin at Steve, keeping his hand around his grandmother’s shoulders. “Nana, this is Steve Rogers. He’s my” — he hesitated long enough to blink twice — “uh, upstairs neighbor.”

She let out a sigh that could rival Sid’s best. “James,” she scolded, pulling away from him to approach Steve. “So. Steve Rogers,” she said, her accent making his name sound exotic and unfamiliar. “Where did you meet my grandson?”

Steve cleared his throat and looked her in the eye, saying, “In our building. My cat likes his cooking, and she kept sneaking out to eat with him, so I went looking for her and found Bucky.” Too late, he processed the fact that Nana called him James instead of Bucky, and he winced slightly.

Her brows shot up. “Your _cat?_ ” she asked, glancing back at Bucky, who was smiling a little nervously.

“Sid — the cat — _really_ likes your red sauce,” he told his grandmother. “So does Steve. He’s been eating leftovers for days now.”

Nodding a little too enthusiastically, Steve said, “Bucky’s a really good cook, but he says it’s all because of your recipes. Your sausage was amazing, ma’am.”

One corner of her mouth quirked up. “ _Grazie._ ”

Steve breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He’d taken enough Spanish to be able to sort of understand some Italian, so at least he knew he hadn’t offended. Of course, he didn’t know how to say “you’re welcome,” because he was an idiot and hadn’t studied up. He nodded instead and added, “Oh, also, Sid is a huge fan of your meatballs.”

“Sid?”

“That’s the cat.” Bucky came up next to his grandmother and put his arm around her again. “You’d love her, Nana. She’s a Maine Coon. Silver and black tabby, with long fur, and she’s going to be huge.”

The amount that Bucky loved Sid was directly proportional to the amount of attraction Steve felt for him. Not just attraction, though. _Fondness._ It caught Steve off-guard to realize that. He reached into his pocket for his phone, wondering if the way to every Barnes’ heart was through showing them his cat. “I have pictures, if you’d like...”

Before Nana could answer, Bucky interrupted, “And Steve’s an artist, too. Look.” He let go of her and went for the two drawings, which he’d balanced on top of upside-down cappuccino mugs on a nearby shelf.

Steve reached out to touch Bucky’s arm, but pulled back immediately, quietly saying, “She doesn’t want to see those...” He wasn’t embarrassed of the drawings themselves, but the one of Bucky might have ended up showing a bit too much of Steve’s attraction to him.

“But —”

“I do,” Nana interrupted, “but only with the artist’s permission.” She gave Steve an expectant look.

 _Shit._ Now if he said no, she’d think he’d drawn something lewd. And that was ten times more embarrassing than letting her know that Bucky was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a long time. He met her gaze and nodded. “Of course, ma’am. You’re welcome to.”

She smiled and reached out to take the drawings from Bucky’s hand. Steve watched her eyes scan each image, giving it a quick once-over before she looked at each one again, this time more slowly. “Viola and James,” she said thoughtfully. “You’ve studied art.”

“Yes, ma’am. I got my degree in painting.” Steve glanced over at Bucky, who looked startled. Steve shrugged apologetically, realizing he’d told everyone but Bucky this information, then looked back at Nana.

“You can tell. You have an eye for it,” she said, giving a single nod that felt like approval as she carefully put the drawings back on top of the cups.

Bucky grinned, nudging Steve with his arm. “He’s also showing me how to work this monster.”

She sniffed, though she was still smiling just a little bit. “As if coffee needs a machine the size of a car to be good.” Another sniff, followed by the ultimate condemnation: _“Hipsters.”_ It came out more like _heepsters_.

Steve was glad his tattoos weren’t visible and that he hadn’t re-dyed his hair yet. He did venture to say, “Do you like espresso, ma’am? Or I could make you a cappuccino?”

“Espresso, grazie.”

Flashing a nervous smile at her, Steve said, “Coming right up.” Then he glanced at Bucky and added, “Buck, watch me closely one more time, huh?”

 

~~~

 

“She likes you,” Bucky whispered as he turned backwards to hold the kitchen door open. Steve was carrying his sketchpad — with the two drawings tucked safely inside — and a to-go box of Nana’s chocolate chip cannolis; Bucky had an over-full bag tied shut over five boxes of leftovers and two frozen packages of meatballs, all of which were for Steve.

“She likes my drawings and my coffee, _that’s_ for sure,” Steve murmured back skeptically, though he shot Bucky a smile that held a hint of well-earned triumph. Winning Nana over wasn’t exactly easy.

“She likes _you_ ,” Bucky insisted. He followed Steve into the tiny back alley, then said, “Left. I’m parked a couple cars down. The blue one.”

Steve took a deep breath and softly said, “She likes that I like you.”

Bucky’s stomach flipped. He shot Steve a glance, but the damned alley was too dark to see any details. “And, uh, she’s okay with me liking you, too.”

“That’s convenient. I’d hate to try to lie to her. I value my kneecaps.” Steve’s voice was sharp with humor, but Bucky was pretty sure it was trying to hide the sound of relief.

Convenient. Bucky could live with that. Generally positive, relaxed —

 _She likes that I like you_.

Bucky stopped in his tracks, nearly losing the whole stack of to-go tins. “You...” _Don’t say something stupid. Don’t say something stupid!_ He laughed a little nervously and asked, “So, this mean you and Sid are going to fight over me?”

 _Stupid._ So very stupid.

Steve paused, then huffed, amused. “There’s no contest. If she tries to monopolize you, I’ll lock her in the bathroom with a meatball.”

Bucky’s laugh was breathy with relief. “Two might be safer. She’s a growing girl.” He started walking again, heading for his car, because he needed to get all this stuff out of his arms right now, but Nana would kill him if he just dropped it on the spot.

“Three, if I want to take my time...” Steve’s voice was low and dripping with suggestion.

Bucky hurried the last few steps so he could drop the to-go boxes on the hood. Then he fumbled the keys out of his coat pocket and turned off the alarm before it could go off and embarrass him, which had happened once to Rebecca. That had been a learning experience for all.

Then, heart pounding, he turned to Steve and asked, “And, uh, if I wanted to start now?”

Steve set his things on the car and looked up into Bucky’s eyes with a sly smile. “Then start already.”

That was pretty close to a clear “yes.” Bucky took a step, closing the distance between them, and lifted his hands to touch Steve’s sharp jaw. His stubble was blond and light, almost invisible, but it felt rough under Bucky’s fingertips. Kind of like Steve. Small and skinny and harmless, but full of surprising rough edges that Bucky wanted to touch. And taste.

So he did, leaning down to press a kiss to Steve’s mouth. The kiss lit sparks all the way down to Bucky’s toes, and that was _before_ he opened his mouth to lick at Steve’s lower lip. Steve tasted like espresso and sugar and heat, and Bucky nipped, then silenced Steve’s groan with another slow, indulgent lick.

Steve took hold of Bucky’s hips and raised up on his tiptoes to capture Bucky’s lips with his own, but after only few moments, he grunted as if annoyed. He dropped down onto his heels and tugged at Bucky’s belt loops, bringing him to the passenger door of the car. Steve opened the door and stepped backwards into the car, then reached for Bucky’s shoulders. He was about an inch taller than Bucky like this.

“Come here. Let’s try that again.”

Bucky went to him eagerly, wrapping his arms around Steve’s body, pulling him close. God, he felt good like this. Steve’s arms encircled his neck, and he hummed in satisfaction as he leaned in to kiss Bucky. Their mouths fit together well this way, and it gave Bucky better access to Steve’s plump lower lip, which he indulged in shamelessly. Steve clearly enjoyed it, his quiet moans and whimpers shifting from approving to desperate over the course of their kiss.

“Steve,” Bucky whispered into the kiss, letting his hands follow the bumps of Steve’s spine down, over the curve of his lower back, all the way to his ass. The least press of Bucky’s fingers had Steve twitching forward, molding their bodies together all the way down to their knees, but with too many layers — jackets and jeans and Bucky’s boring work slacks.

“Why the fuck are we not in my bed?” Steve growled as he leaned almost all of his slight weight against Bucky and bent his head to nip at Bucky’s neck.

“Bed.” It came out sort of squeaky, because Bucky tipped his head back even more, baring his throat. “Right. Let’s do that.”

 

~~~

 

Bucky nuzzled against the back of Steve’s head, breathing in the scent of shampoo and sweat. “Are you gonna dye your hair again?” he muttered sleepily, even though it was hours before he usually went to bed. He laughed and kissed Steve’s hair. “Not _now_ , I mean. Not leaving this bed any time soon.”

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice was a low rumble, almost like a purr. “Some day when the tips are good and I can justify buying another tub of dye. Why?”

“I want to see it.” Bucky grinned, closing his eyes to better picture how adorable Steve would be. “Can I help?”

“Sure, though I gotta warn you, it’s kinda a pain in the ass. And it smells awful.” Steve tucked himself closer into Bucky’s arms, pressing their bodies flush together.

“Mmm, don’t care. Any excuse to pet you.” Bucky squeezed him tight, then kissed the back of his head. “Is that okay? I mean, you can tell me to just go away.”

“No way in hell. I’ve wanted to get my hands on you pretty much nonstop since I first saw you. Touch me all you want. You feel fucking fantastic.” Steve turned around in Bucky’s arms and wrapped an arm around Bucky’s waist, nudging a knee between Bucky’s own, and fitting himself snugly under Bucky’s chin. One he’d settled again, he kissed Bucky’s collarbone softly and sighed.

“But I’m all boring, and you’re gorgeous and interesting and creative...”

“Oh, my God, you idiot. You’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. Shut up.”

Bucky laughed and twisted around so he could take hold of Steve’s hand. “Only one of us has these,” he said, rolling onto his back to admire the abstract, geometric tattoos wrapped around Steve’s arm. He tugged to get Steve’s arm within kissing distance, then spoke with his lips pressed to Steve’s skin. “And it’s not the boring one.”

“You’re not boring. Quit saying that.” Steve propped up on his free arm to look down into Bucky’s face. The dim light had him frowning, his eyes squinted. “You’re sweet and kind and generous and a great conversationalist. And you’re good with cats. I have no idea how I got so lucky.”

“Well, if you’re gonna be like that, you forgot ‘great cook’,” Bucky teased, giving Steve’s arm one last kiss before he let go.

“Yeah, but that’s a given. And it’s not why I’m with you.” Steve leaned in until his lips were barely touching Bucky’s and added, “Though I’ll admit it’s a damned good perk.”

Bucky grinned and stole a kiss. “Nana wouldn’t like you _nearly_ as —”

He cut off with a whoosh of breath as something landed hard on his gut, driving the air from his lungs. With a demanding yowl, Sid Vicious the kitten shoved herself under Steve’s chin. As soon as Steve recoiled, Sid slid down onto the pillow between them, nearly taking off Bucky’s ear. There was something arrogant about the way she curled up and flipped her tail over her face, as though erasing the human nuisances from her world.

“Uh,” Bucky said, scrubbing fiercely at his face to try and get rid of the cat fur stuck in his stubble. Apparently a relationship with Steve — and Steve’s cat — meant beards were out of the picture for the duration. “Co-parenting?”

“Co- _something._ It’s clearly going to take the both of us to keep her in line.” Steve nudged her over on the pillow so there was room for his head to fit against Bucky’s shoulder. She ended up rolling onto her side and latching her paws around Steve’s head, with her tail flopped in Bucky’s face.

“Uh huh,” Bucky said, trying not to open his mouth or eyes. “’S cozy. Just the three of us.”

“Look, you were the one that didn’t want to lock her in the bathroom.” The tail was swept out of the way, and Sid growled, making Bucky wonder what exactly Steve had done with it. Steve’s voice came close to Bucky’s ear and had a warm, teasing tone. “I’m not the kind of guy who says something like, ‘date me, date my cat’ or anything. That’s on you, pal.”

Warily, Bucky blinked a couple of times, ready to flinch if a claw got too close. It seemed safe, though, so Bucky turned and kissed Steve’s nose, which was just within reach. “The answer’s yes.”

“The... what?” Steve’s eyes uncrossed as Bucky pulled away from his nose, and the shift in his expression from confusion to understanding was dramatic and adorable. “Oh. Really? But just me. You and Sid can be bros, and you can feed her all you want, but seriously, don’t date my cat. I really don’t want to share you.”

Bucky grinned like an idiot. “Well, I’m not sharing you, either. I propose an exclusive co-parenting agreement. Oh, with shared custody of random sisters once a month, because Viola will kill me if I monopolize your time. And Nana likes you, so you’ll have to come to the restaurant a lot... maybe to run our coffee machine? Say, Friday and Saturday nights? I mean, I’d have to talk to Nana about it, but I don’t think I’ll ever be as good at espresso as you are.”

Steve looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, then said, “I’d have to not work Saturday mornings. And maybe Sundays, but that’s gonna be hard.” He nuzzled against Bucky’s neck as he continued, “You don’t have to be as good as me to make decent cappuccinos, though. You’ve gotta work on your foam, that’s all.”

“That an innuendo?” Bucky teased, then burst out laughing when Steve nipped at his neck in answer. Maybe Steve was self-conscious about his height and build, but Bucky loved it. One tug rolled Steve on top of him — and away from the hazardous kitten’s claws.

Steve laughed as he gave the pretense of a protest, “Hey, what do you — _Oh._ ” It took him about two seconds to slot his hips against Bucky’s in a way that made them both groan in pleasure, at least until Steve let out a yelp and rolled onto Bucky’s other side, which put him dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.

“What? Hey!” Bucky held Steve close and inched over to make room, only to feel a sharp jab right under his ribs. He flinched and froze, then choked out an involuntary laugh as Sid curled up against his side, toasty warm under the blanket. “Co-parenting has its down-sides.”

“Only if you’re a damned pushover. That’s it. Come on, Sid. Time to get well acquainted with the bathroom. He’s my boyfriend, not yours.” Steve rolled off the edge of the mattress, landing on his feet, then reached over Bucky to pick his kitten up and carry her out of the bedroom.

 _Boyfriend,_ Bucky thought, liking the sound of that. He threw off the blanket, shivered a little in the cold air, and followed his boyfriend and their co-kitten. “Right. You get her litter box. I’ll heat up the meatballs.”


End file.
